


The Prince and the Witch's Son

by YurisSpanx



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Parents, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Forced to come out, High School, Homophobia, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 77,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28627035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YurisSpanx/pseuds/YurisSpanx
Summary: Andrew, a hyperactive, ostentatious, and rebellious seventeen year old, is convinced that he'll be the next Adam Ant or voice of the next Disney cartoon. His crush on Elliot, the introverted boy next door, has a less certain outcome. This is probably for the best, because Elliot's mother might be a real witch, she's just that nasty. Not that Andrew's parents, rich, ordinary, and conventional, would jump on board that ship, either.When Elliot returns his feelings, Andrew finds himself having to keep his loud mouth closed.Meanwhile, Elliot invites Andrew to a magical place, and though it may be imaginary and cold, their parents can't get there (no one else can, in fact), and therein lies its appeal. Escaping into a dreamland when they want a little freedom, they're set to wait out the rest of high school in secret.
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story fifty billion years ago, but never published it. Now, I thought, what the heck, just do it. I have learnt many lessons about writing since this story, so...I will not be accepting criticism, constructive or otherwise. Enjoy this thing that my younger self put her heart and soul into.
> 
> It's set in 2003 (that was my last year of high school, whewwww!)

My name is Andrew Cornwall. I know! So bland! But it’s not my fault; my parents are the ones who chose it. Not that even I have the imagination to fully encapsulate my boundless magnificence in one little group of sounds.

My parents, however, are lucky. They got Rochester (like that guy from _Jane Eyre_ , a book I was meant to read for English last year and…read some of it…like…a chapter?) and Quinella, which they don’t appreciate at all! They treat them like embarrassing deformities, covering them up with plain baggy clothes called Chester and Ella, and balk at any mention of the shame within. I think that’s what brought them together. Can’t think of what else would have…

In such a benevolent fashion, they sought to bestow my brother and I with names safely plucked from the top ten lists in every baby names book. My first born, I name thee David! My second born, I name thee Andrew! Now go and mingle with the other Davids and Andrews, and become indistinguishable from them! David can’t think of anything else to do. Andrew _shan’t_.

Look at my parents, gazing at my baby face and calling me a name that means ‘strong and manly’. Oh, how naive they were! If they’d wanted that, they should have called me a name that means ‘weak and girly’. But they couldn’t have known what a contrary sod I’d be, when all they had in front of them was a pruny (but _adorable_ ) lump that was making a hell of a lot of noise about wanting to go back in Mummy’s womb.

So Andrew I am, known to some as ‘Andy’, others as ‘that funny guy’, and yet others as ‘that annoying, attention-seeking lunatic’. So it’s alright, because, seventeen years on, the world has given me the appropriate names my parents could not.

 _He_ just calls me Andrew, and I don’t mind. Yes, _He_. Elliot Hunter. The boy next door. That beautiful human being I’m looking at right now. He’s fiddling with the giant, black-rimmed glasses that cover his beautiful pale face underneath that blonde/ginger hair that I’ve never touched, and that is a fact that _hurts_. It’s hurt since I was seven. How the hell I got a crush when I was seven, I’ll never know. Ten years and still going… If only I’d had such an attention span for _Jane Eyre._

He looks at me (yay!) with a tortured expression, and I give him a sympathetic ‘I don’t want to be here either’ look.

Both of our families are imprisoned in his lounge, sitting on olive green couches that almost feel like leaves, unlike the marshmallowy couches at my house. Seriously, what kind of couch is this stiff and shiny? Our bellies are full of weird vegetarian food (no – that’s a lie – I pushed my food around my plate and made a mushy whirlpool that carrot-sticks met their doom in, then ate two helpings of the lemon meringue pie Mum and I made for desert) and we’re watching his little sister, Amy, perform her idiotic speech about why everyone should eat more vegetables. I'm not sure how standing before the Hunters' mantlepiece while her mummy beams will prepare her for the sneering faces of the other year threes tomorrow.

David is huffing and puffing; the attention span of the room has chugged off down the tracks towards something more interesting, like a dead leaf on the carpet, one’s own fingernails, or, in my case, my childhood crush looking like he wants to hang himself.

Who knew three minutes could take so long? The sun creeps further and further down the horizon, edging away from all this talk of natural sugars, until Amy's voice stops squeaking through the room. Marilyn, proud mother, is clapping her sun-tanned hands – oh, and Gregory, her useless appendage…I mean…the father, pushes his greying brown hair out of his eyes and joins in.

“Who’s up for video games?” I declare, gaining looks of disapproval from the four adults (I think Mum and Dad are just embarrassed that I took the attention before they remembered to clap). But what are they expecting? I was very well behaved for those three minutes, while that smug little brat hogged all the adoration.

Elliot stands up, and Marilyn’s expression turns demonic.

“Elliot, congratulate your sister on her speech,” she says through taut lips.

“Uh, good job,” he says unenthusiastically, and he’s out of the living-room before his tone can be criticised.

I’m bounding after him, David behind me, our laughter escaping when we’re in the hall, out of view, but not earshot. Elliot turns around and puts a finger to his lips, but his expression is all amusement, lips pressed together and fighting to trap his own laughter.

This is one of those moments when David and I really connect as brothers. The warmth between us is all cuddly, like he’s turned into one of those giant teddy bears every kid wants taking up half the space in their room.

“What the fuck was that even about?” he sniggers, clutching the stairwell to support his hysteria.

“Absolute crap!” My stomach hurts from laughing, so I can’t get as many words out as I’d like.

“Say it louder, won’t you?” Elliot says through gritted teeth. I know sarcasm when I hear it, and can’t help rising to it.

“ _Abso_ -mfff!” A hand is over my mouth and shoving my loud voice back where it came from, and it’s right there on my lips and under my nose and it smells better than the most delicious desert in the world and _oh my God_. I almost stick my tongue out and lick it, but, somehow, I manage to restrain myself.

And then it’s gone, and the space in front of my mouth seems unbearably empty, so I fill it with laughter instead, the sound cavorting through the air but still failing to make it anywhere near as interesting as _that hand_. I bound up the stairs with more energy than before and jump onto the couch in the playroom, almost bruising my arm on the wooden armrest as I sprawl. The laughter won’t stop and I’m afraid I sound even more manic than usual, but the other two take no notice as they follow me in, even as my eyes start to stream (at least, I hope that’s why my vision’s going blurry).

David grabs a snowboarding game off the shelf and Elliot starts setting up the console, and I look at him in wonderment. He touched me so nonchalantly and almost gave me a seizure, and now he looks even more beautiful than usual as he goes about ordinary tasks like pressing buttons and looking at a screen. Oh, he does those things a lot.

Wielding the second controller, David comes and sits on top of my legs.

“Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!” I complain, even though it hurts about half as much as I’m making it sound.

“Then don’t hog the couch, you lanky wanker!” he shoves my long legs out from under him and I have to sit normally.

“You’re just jealous ‘cause you’re short and fat!” I elbow him in the side.

“Am not. Just when compared to you, freak!” He lobs the side of my head and messes up my coiffure.

“How _dare_ you? I had it all perfect! Took me ages and now it’s all _ruined_ ,” I complain, but I’m too busy fixing it to belt him back. “Now this bit won’t stick up anymore and I don’t have my hairspray.” I flop a newly limp patch in demonstration.

I’d like to say Elliot is taking an interest in my hair, but he’s concentrating on the screen in front of us so hard I think his mind’s gone inside it. At least he’s sitting beside me, instead of the other couch…even if that’s just for better TV viewing.

While he and David race each other across snowy slopes, I block out David’s icky brother smell and try to get a whiff of that Elliot scent I got on the stairs. It’s not as obvious as other people’s, but it is there, in his pores, making me breathe faster.

“Jump over the hill!” I say, pointing at the screen. “Left left left!”

“ _We know_ ,” David says, doing exactly what I said but, _apparently_ , of his own accord.

Elliot laughs, so I play up to it. “Go straight! Jump! Land! Turn slightly right!”

“Shhh!” David hisses.

“Don’t distract me,” Elliot mutters, though he’s smiling. Oh, but I _want_ to distract you, you adorable thing, you.

“Don’t fall off!” I exclaim as Elliot veers a pixel from a cliff’s edge.

“Maybe he won’t if you _shut up_ ,” David’s voice pops in again, and I wish he wasn’t there, disrupting the epic romance going on in my mind.

Elliot wins, and David complains that I gave him an unfair advantage, even though we all know Elliot’s the best by far at any video game you could chuck at him. He even beats me at karaoke, and I sing like a god.

“I hate that game!” A voice we’ve just heard three minutes too much of encroaches on the room.

“Then go do something else.” Elliot turns to his sister and, though I can’t see his face, I can see hers and the way she flinches at his expression.

But her resolve comes back. “I don’t want to. I want to play with you guys.”

“We don’t want to play with you,” he says.

I’m about to bank on Elliot winning; the venom in his tone could only bravely be reckoned with - but then –

“Mum! Elliot’s being mean to me!” Cheap trick!

A voice calls up from the lounge. “Elliot! Play nicely with your sister!” Now _that_ venom sounds like it could kill in an instant.

“I _am_ ,” Elliot yells down, and I can hear his teeth grinding.

We sit in silence for a few moments. Our fear that the wicked witch will swoop up and eat us all alive seeps around us like dry ice on a stage. Amy sneers at Elliot, and he grips the controller tighter, skin losing its scant colour.

“She’s disrupting our game!” I call out.

“ _Include her_.”

“Ha!” the brat throws at me, then stomps over to the console and kicks it open, replacing _Snowboarding 2003_ with _Quest To Save Fairytown_. Actually, it’s not that bad, but she’s just gone and made it seem like the worst game ever invented.

“I’m outta here,” David launches himself off the couch and out of the room.

Elliot’s legs twitch, as though he’s about to do the same, but he stays put.

“It’ll be easier if I stay, but you can leave,” he whispers to me, and I can smell the lemon meringue pie on his breath and just want to kiss it all out of his mouth.

“I shan’t leave you alone with the beast,” I whisper back, and want to be all boyfriendly about it and kiss him on the cheek, or carry him off into the sunset on a stately white horse.

His smile is so grateful and sweet that I almost do one of those things, but then my leg is crushed as Amy wedges herself in between us and starts up her game. A one-player game. Wait – why are we here?

I pretend to take an interest in her plight as a fairy flitting through a cloudy castle, and command her to do ridiculous things that use up all of her lives. Elliot slumps against his side of the couch and stares off into space.

“Hey, guys.” A sweaty, leotarded and very female body pops around the door-frame. The eldest sibling of the Hunter-clan, back from dance practice.

“Rebecca!” Amy squeals, leaping up from the couch, her child-foot slamming onto my almost-clown-foot as she goes.

Elliot’s chest expands and contracts with the sort of sigh you’d expect in a courthouse after an acquittal, and I say, “Thank you, darling Rebecca, who has saved us from the hideous beast!”

Amy wails and Rebecca tries to drape a weary expression over the gleam in her eye and the amused twitch of her mouth, before being dragged off to listen to another rendition of that accursed speech.

Free of the seven-year-old’s obscene amount of power, Elliot and I slink out of the room like forbidden lovers sneaking off to the nearest toilet cubicle. I’m about to suggest something not so crude but still enough to ensnare him in my company for a while longer, when my adversary struts into the hall, tail flicking the air, eyes beaming yellow, and winds herself around Elliot’s legs. He picks her up right away and hugs her.

“Spark, where were you?” he says with more relief than I can bear to admit, nuzzling his face into her black and white fur, which makes me want to sneeze. Then he looks up at me, saying, “Thanks for staying.” Though he sounds grateful, I can hear those unsaid words – ‘but I’m covered, now. You can go.’

I don’t care if it’s ridiculous to feel jealous of a cat – I just do. Especially since she barely acknowledges me, as though there’s no competition between us! Sure there is…sure there is… No there isn’t… Damn cat.

Now, let me get a couple of things straight. I don’t hate cats, so whatever I say about Spark is purely out of jealousy of that attention-hogging fur-ball. Some cats are delightful, but not ones that scratch me and make human contact seem optional to the object of my affection.

I also have nothing against brats who’re their mummy’s little darlings. I’m one of those, myself. But I think I’ve got enough charm to pull it off. Plus, I’m not evil.

I trundle myself downstairs and find David practicing basketball amongst the apple and peach trees outside, and offer myself up to be massacred by him. Sure, I’m tall and fast, but I tend to miss the hoop and hit the fence or David's face, and he can trip me up without trying. But like that diminishes my magnificence!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew heads off to school while attempting to get as much time with his beloved Elliot as he can.

It’s six o clock, and I’m up, like a shock of sunlight through the gap in my curtains. No alarm needed! I’m always up early and I _can’t stand_ lying in bed once I’m awake.

Once, when I was little, I tried to copy the way my mum lies awake in bed for a good hour before powering up and going about her motherly duties. I lasted five minutes before restlessness made my head collapse in on itself and my limbs shoot off my torso and embed themselves in the walls like arrows. That’s what I was imagining, anyway.

So I never tried that again. It’s a good thing, too, because I need all that extra time to get ready. My hair doesn’t look this good on its own! Let’s just say, if it doesn’t take at least twenty minutes to complete, I’m not happy. Sometimes, it takes an hour. Sometimes, the teachers make me go to the changing room showers and rinse all the hairspray and hair gel out, and I have to walk around school looking like I’ve got a black mop on my head. Igh!

Today, I’m making it all curly in a messy kind of way, because I still feel like that after last night’s hand-on-mouth incident. That’s also given me a new resolve – to walk to school with Elliot today.

By seven, I'm fully curled and wearing my grey and navy school blazer and shorts, imprisoned in dull pinstripes. I bound downstairs to grab a Danish from the pantry, stuffing it in my mouth as I head through the beige and white kitchen, and head for the door.

Dad walks in and looks at me with the confused expression he often gets when he sees me (that is, when he’s not enraged). He looks like he doesn’t know what to say, then finally settles on, “Straighten your tie, Andrew.”

I roll my eyes, “It’s fine, _Rochester_ ,” and break out into a grin when his face goes red with anger. “It’s, what, two millimetres off centre? Do you think that’s going to get me expelled?”

“Don’t talk to me like that, young man.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. “I won’t have you leaving this house looking like a scruff.”

He grabs my tie and makes it all perfect and triangular, pointing down exactly to the middle of my chest, which would be cool if it wasn't something _he_ had done.

“There. Now…can’t you do something about your hair?” Oh, he’s back on that subject again! At least my uniform is already a crappy burden foisted upon me, but my hair is truly radiant!

“I did do something about my hair. For half an hour!” I duck before he can grab it and bend it to his bland will. He can waste those thick black locks of his, but I won’t waste mine! “I know you want me to look like a boring old business man like you, but I shan’t!” I say as if I’m a royal being asked to change a cat’s litter box.

“You can’t go off to school looking like a fruit!” Oh dear. From a scruff to a fruit. I fear I’m in for a lecture.

“What’s all this?” Mum comes into the kitchen, looking upset, as usual when we raise our voices and sound the slightest bit angry. _Her_ hair's allowed to be curly.

“Dad’s cramping my style,” I make my voice sullen and whiny, because that usually works with her, and gesture to my glorious spirals.

“Oh dear, Andrew, but you do look a bit silly.” If she’s saying that, she must think I look like a mental patient.

“You’re both _lame_ ,” I say, imitating the teenagers on TV when their parents are embarrassing them. Except I’m the one embarrassing them. Stuffy old farts. “See ya,” I farewell business man Ken and housewife Barbie before they can make even more of a fuss about nothing. Though, I have to say, I feel even better about my hair, now. Bad attention can be even better than good attention.

It’s a bit early to be leaving, which means I’ll have pre-empted the embarkment of the Elliotmobile. He always leaves on time. So I go and sit in one of the many bushes outside his house (it’s covered in one of those wall climbing plants and surrounded by an overgrown garden, which would be awesome if it wasn’t so horribly typical of Marilyn and Gregory). Yes, I’m sitting in a bush like a pervert. That’ll score me points, surely!

I crouch there, staring at the leaves with their freckles and dew spots, and the brick wall behind them, stealing glances at the front door and listening for the click of its latch. My heart is beating as if I’m about to give _myself_ a fright, and I almost hope he doesn’t come out of the house, so I don’t have the painful delight of his company and the disappointment of knowing it means so much less to him. Or maybe I’m just a contrary bastard who always wants the opposite of what will happen.

He emerges shoulders even more slumped than usual and his eyes glaring unsaid obscenities at the ground. I jump out of my hiding place, growling like Mufasa from _The Lion King_. He stumbles sideways, a strangled noise making its way out of his throat, then relaxes slightly, panting, when he sees me.

 _God_ , Andrew, you gave me a heart attack!” He looks like he wants to belt me over the head. He wants to do _something_ to me!

“Never fear, dear Elliot, for I have scared away the ferocious lion that sought to attack you,” I say, kneeling gallantly at his feet.

Peeking up, I see he’s laughing through his hand, his shaking shoulders betraying his reluctant amusement.

“I’ll have to walk you to school, to make sure he doesn’t come after you again. I think he fancied you,” I say, standing up.

Now he’s laughing out loud, beautiful and unabashed for a second. “Alright, let’s go,” he says, shaking his head and walking down the street.

I catch up to his side and slow down to his pace, which is considerably slower than mine, as he passes the row of identical pohutukawa trees at the end of our block. The houses of the next block line up before us, a mixture of square townhouses and old, wooden triangles.

“And how is Elliot today? Apart from having a heart attack?” I ask.

For a second, that look passes over his face again, the one that was making the ground so fearful it was considering an earthquake. And then it’s gone. “Alright,” he says with little emotion. “Amused, now.” He smiles. And, oh! Isn’t that lovely? He’s not impervious to me, after all!

“Glad to be of service,” I take a little bow.

“What about you?” he asks.

“Fantastic! Well, also annoyed. My parents are so…blegh!”

“Not understanding?” he offers a couple of words the dictionary approves of.

“Yes! My hair’s embarrassing them. Who cares that _I_ like it and _I’m_ the one who has to be seen in it. Like I’d ever be caught dead with _Dad’s_ hair! They don’t appreciate my look at all.”

“Are the leaves part of your look today?” he snickers a little.

My hands fly to my hair and crunch upon hairspray and the leathery point of a leaf. “Ha! Must’ve been from that bush. I don’t know. Should they be?” I turn my head for his viewing pleasure.

“If you want to annoy Mrs Flenworthy.”

“That’s a definite yes!” And it’s settled. The leaves get to stay until they’ve done their job and Mrs Flenworthy, our form room teacher, evicts them.

“I admire your bravery,” he says, and I’m speechless for a second. But it could never last long.

“I can fend off a hungry lion! Some stuffy old bat’s no match for me!”

“You shouldn’t call her that!”

I roll my eyes. _You’re_ the one laughing!

I launch into an impression of her, complete with hunched back and beady, laser eyes, roaming my sights for anything unseemly. “Elliot Hunter! Don’t slouch! Smile! Tie your shoelaces properly! Move that rock; I don’t like it there!”

He kicks the rock at my foot and shakes his head. “I’ll save it for the real one.”

When we get to our form room, we find a couple of desks with pen-graffiti embedded into every surface, and shove our bags underneath them.

“Andrew Cornwall, there are leaves in your hair.” Mrs Flenworthy is at my side with speed that doesn't match her hooked spine.

“Yes, there are.” I smile at her innocently.

“Get them out or I’ll send you to the principal’s office.” Her light blue irises blend into her the whites of her eyes, while her pupils prick at my skin.

I roll my eyes, grumble, and take the leaves out. The teachers don’t muck around with me. They get straight to ‘the principal’s office’ over every single thing, before it escalates. Now I have a pile of leaves on my desk. I open its flap and sweep them all inside it, purely because no one would want me to.

And then the roll for 2003 Year 12F is called, because Mrs Flenworthy is like a substitute teacher, calling every name in meticulous fashion each morning, despite knowing us all by sight. I always respond in a different voice (today, I’m singing it like Roger Daltrey); half the class laughs, while the other half roll their eyes, and Mrs Flenworthy looks like she wants to legalise the cane.

~*~

By lunchtime, rain starts falling from a cloud as grey as our uniforms. I run from the classrooms with my maths book covering my curls. In the shelter of the Year 12 common room kitchen, the drops of rain overhead make the roof sound thin, as though it’s dissolving and shaking.

“Ow!” I cry as I ‘accidentally’ graze the tip of my finger with my knife. Of course, it’s when Elliot walks past.

“Are you alright?” he shuffles over to me and peers over my shoulder at a respectable distance.

We inspect the tiny wound and the blood-stained passionfruit. The tip of my finger has gone numb, so it’s easy to imagine that the passionfruit is the one bleeding on me, half cut open with its seeds poking out like innards.

He makes a small noise of sympathy, and asks, “Want me to get a plaster?”

“Yes please.” I nod pathetically, eyes wide, looking down into his. He looks away instantly.

While he goes and gets a plaster, a droplet of water plinks past my elbow and into the sink, and I screw the tap tighter. The rain still taps on the windowpane. I suck my finger clean. Terrible metal taste. I'd never make a good vampire.

He’s back with a box of plasters in hand, and looks relieved to see the blood all gone and the tiniest of cuts in its place. I shouldn’t have done that. Now it looks lame.

“Thanks, you’re a life saver,” I say and take a plaster.

I make a great show of failure at putting it on one-handed, muttering to myself and swearing at the little piece of plastic and adhesive that is only trying to help me.

“Let me,” he says. YES.

He puts my plaster on gently, his hands all soft and padded against my bony finger, and I can feel every slight movement without even trying to concentrate. My skin’s gone sensitive, as if the top layer is stripped away and he’s touching something underneath this fleshy cloak that surrounds me. My breathing becomes quick and important, but I’m not even having an asthma attack.

I think I might kiss his hands; they’re so prominent in my mind that I can’t think of anything else, can’t look at anything else, can’t distract myself. My eyeballs are tied to them. They’re so beautiful, pale and rounded and delicate. I’d be gentle with you, my darlings, don’t worry…

“Jeez, Andrew, you should never be let near knives.” A voice squeezes into my focus and usurps the reign Elliot’s hands have over it. And then his hands are gone, leaving a little corner of plaster flicking out, unstuck and neglected, oh woe.

I turn to glare at Elaine Quigley, who's standing in the doorway, flicking her dark brown hair out of her face.

“Want me to cut your big mouth off? Cause I will,” I say, gesturing to the knife on the bench.

“ _My_ big mouth?” she splutters, and my own laughter spills out.

I look over at Elliot to see he’s, again, trying not to laugh, and my grin grows wider.

“At least I have sympathetic citizens like you to take care of me,” I say, reaching out and touching his arm in a friendly manner that freezes, because I can’t bear to move it away, until he’s looking at the hand suspiciously and self-consciously, his tension spreading from his face to the very arm I’m touching, and I can feel it under my hand, firm and tingling, unmoving as a whole, while every cell trembles. I pull away.

“I hope it doesn’t hurt anymore,” he says, smiling sweetly and walking back to wherever he and his friends sit on rainy lunchtimes. He should stay here. Elaine and I would talk to him in English, which is more than I can say for his friends. We could even teach him that sign language we made up and used for one whole day. Or maybe he just wants to play with that gadget sticking out of his blazer pocket, a tangle of wires contained within plastic and glass.

“Sorry if I interrupted something,” Elaine says, smirking.

“You're such a hand-blocker.” I elbow her in the side. “I was thinking...maybe we should ask him to help us out with our play. Like, with the electronics and stuff.”

“Yay! Evil seduction plan. I mean…romantic…spending time with beloved…plan.” She puts on a faux-innocent expression.

We amble past the other Year 12s in the common room, who fail to part for me like good royal subjects should. Elaine steps on Liam Agless's sandwich, then sniggers and scurries into the corner of the room before he can notice.

Although I have many adoring fans at school, it’s always Elaine and I together. The others are just hangers on. Or, as Elaine likes to put it, they probably just can’t stand me for too long at once. But that girl, she’s got nerves of steel.

She is, without a doubt, the best friend ever. I am just that awesome that I’ve got _the_ best friend. She puts up with my crap, gets excited when I get excited, and buys me lollies. Okay…buying me lollies is kind of like buying an alcoholic alcohol, but I’m sure the alcoholic _really_ appreciates it, right?

She has a million different clips in her bedroom, and always uses one to pin her gloriously long, dark brown hair behind her right ear. Some are not exactly school regulation, which explains why her hair is flopping over her eyes. Poor clip, imprisoned in the bony fingers of Mrs Flenworthy, no doubt.

For the rest of the lunchtime, we scribble musical notes to each other. We have Music class next, and we’re writing a song together. I love Music, despite the fact that awesome Mr Ables has been replaced by Mr Kentle, who wouldn’t know good music if David Bowie fell into his lap, and, accordingly, thinks our song is a blight upon the school’s musical record. I’m sorry, but you can’t have our beautiful voices for your silly choir – we already have a band.

I’d say he’ll eat his words when our band makes it big and millions of journalists want to know about my sex life, but I’m not that delusional. That’ll just cement his opinion.

Elaine rushes to class first, because she wants the best keyboard, while I go and grab my guitar from my locker. While I’m there, Miranda Anderson comes up and chats to me, because she’s annoying and thinks she has to be everyone’s best friend. But I like the attention so I chat with her, teasing her because her usually immaculate uniform has a toothpaste stain on it.

“Ugh! I should brush my teeth in my pyjamas,” she says as she tries to spit-clean her tunic.

“It’s that damn navy,” I shake my head, “shows _everything_. Ooh, you'll probably get a detention for it.”

She looks appalled at the word detention (though she doesn’t even know what they’re like!), then purses her lips. “Andrew, you’re a nut.”

“I’m perfectly sane, I tells you!” I stamp my foot dramatically, but my laughter ruins it. I’ll have to work on that before I become a voice actor.

“Okay.” She shakes her head, eyebrows raised and giving her premature forehead wrinkles, then gives me a smile and a wave as she clops off to class in her shiny shoes, heaven forbid she be late.

~*~

Once the bell has drilled into our heads for the last time today, I half-skip, half-walk down the footpath in the direction of home, while Elliot shuffles along behind me. My prattle is probably boring him, because his expression is a little too polite, and he’s not using the ample response time I’m giving him. Three seconds is enough, right?

In the middle of talking about how stupid Mr Kentle is for not liking Adam Ant, I remember what I should really be talking about.

“So, wanna help out with the play?” I ask, swinging around a lamp post, the concrete exfoliating a layer off my skin. “With the lighting and stuff,” I add quickly. “You know, you could be our electronics guy. Make the speakers work, and all that other...” I wave my hand around and settle on the finely crafted word, “crud.”

“Oh.” He blinks at me. I hope I’m not imagining the interest I see peeking out from behind a tree in the forest of his eyes. “Sure. Sounds alright, and at least it’ll stop you from getting Jacob Brently to do it. What were you thinking, last year?”

Uh…something like, _Why didn’t I just ask Elliot to do it?_

“He wasn’t _that_ bad, was he? Nothing blew up! And we got through the show magnificently, I thought,” I say.

“No thanks to him.”

“Not everyone can be as awesome at it as you.” I shrug.

He almost recoils from the compliment, all pigment fleeing his skin. “Thanks,” he says quietly but gratefully, looking down at his shoes and their scuffed toes, almost the same colour as the concrete under them. “What play are you doing?”

“Good question! Elaine and I are running through the possibilities at every spare opportunity. Too bad we have about twenty we want to do, and ten of those we just _have_ to do. But it’s early days and a decision shall be reached, never ye fear.”

“Alright.” He doesn’t look fearful at all. “Keep me posted.” You care that much, my darling? My heart’s all a flutter!

Now I want to talk about him, so… “What was that thing you were working on at lunchtime?”

He looks surprised and goes pale again. “It’s supposed to light up when there’s a space station overhead.”

“Cool! Can I see it?”

He shakes his head. “Mrs Flenworthy confiscated it before I could even finish it.”

“Damn her to the fiery bowels of hell!” I say to the sky. A round, grey cloud looms back at me. “She stole Elaine’s clip, too.”

“We can get them back at the end of the week, I suppose…” He pouts, staring hard at the air between us.

“She’s still a bitch. You know it’s true,” I add when he looks down, his mouth hardening and pressing in on itself while his eyes laugh.

He shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah,” he concedes.

“Damn teachers. Worse than parents,” I say.

“No way.” He shakes his head, then turns away from me slightly.

“Yeah, it’s probably a tie.”

He’s silent until I start rabbiting on about something frivolous again.

Shoes. They’re great, aren’t they? I’ve got about twenty pairs. You’ve only got three? Oh, that’s sad. But you’d look beautiful in anything. It _would_ be nice to see you in colours other than grey or black, and in clothes less baggy. Doesn’t it bore you? I’d love to see you in light blue, with that fair skin of yours. Or green, to bring out your eyes. Oh, but you probably see enough green in that house of yours. Why don’t you just wear nothing? Wouldn’t that be nice? Yes. I’d like that a lot. I could take your clothes off for you.

I snap out of my daydream, much to my dismay. We’re outside Elliot’s house, and oh horror of horrors, he’s cuddling Spark. Curse you stupid cat! I wish he’d just left you on the side of the road where he found you! Actually, I don’t. Starving cats are not on my list of things I want. I do, however, wish he’d never become so attached to you. Then I’d only have his computer and his mind and his distance to compete with. Oh, and the fact that his mother would throw a fit and he would want to avoid that at all costs. No, it’s hopeless no matter what. _But I still hate that fucking cat!_

“See ya, Andrew. Thanks for the invite,” he says, walking up his driveway with Spark in his arms.

“No problem! Thanks for accepting it!” I bound up my own driveway and fling the door open with a flourish. It bangs against the wall and swings back at me, trying to let me know who’s boss, but I fend it off with my elbow.

“Andrew, don’t bang the door,” Mum calls from the kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tragedy befalls Elliot, and Andrew makes a really clumsy move on him.

I’m lying here in bed, daydreaming about him, feeling the kind of restlessness that _doesn’t_ make me spring out of bed like a jack-in-the-box. It wasn’t always like this – crazy hormones kicking in, I guess. I don’t know exactly when I started to think about him too much, and thoughts of riding off into the sunset to my majestic castle where I rule started to be accompanied by thoughts of the royal chamber and _oh, I wonder what his cock looks like_ , but I definitely wasn’t thinking about that when I was seven. I probably just wanted his undivided attention, at that stage.

Like the time I jumped out of a tree and broke my leg to impress him. Such a devious plan! Which may not have impressed him, but he did almost cry when my leg started to go purple.

I remember once singing _Under the Sea_ from _The Little Mermaid_ to him while we made a Lego castle. I think he said Sebastian was his favourite, and that made me happy because he was my favourite, too. I know from photos that Elliot had a rounder face and blonder hair and was cuter than a baby seal sunbathing.

And now he’s cute _and_ hot, and I’m equipped with more knowledge and hormones than any seven year old (though I haven’t caught up in maturity), so I definitely definitely want him.

Like that time my family went over to his house for breakfast, and he must have slept in or forgotten, because when I went upstairs to say hi, he was coming out of the bathroom covered only by a towel and droplets and a sleepy, then startled, then embarrassed expression, and my ‘hi’ came out like it was said by a parrot and I turned right around and shut myself in their downstairs bathroom and jumped up and down a few times. At the time, it was horrible, but the memory is like a scent I just can’t stop smelling, even though too much of it is making my eyes water and my nose twitch.

Or what about when we all went out for milkshakes, and Amy spilt hers all over my new, bright blue trousers and Mum told me off for yelling at her, and Marilyn told Elliot to give her some of his, so he pulled out his straw and licked it from top to bottom, tongue curving around the straw slightly, then slid the straw back in. Of course it was a vanilla milkshake. Of course a bit got left on his lip that he didn’t notice for a moment. Amy didn’t want the milkshake anymore, but _I_ wanted it. I wanted to _be_ the milkshake.

Oh yeah. And I remember one time he pressed himself into the corner of the room and said he wasn’t there. I don’t enjoy that memory so much. Not the sort of thing you want to remember in the middle of a fantasy…

~*~

All the houses on this street look the same, with their terracotta rooves, bumpy, off-white walls, and I haven't seen a number thirteen in all five streets Elaine and I have been down so far. The grey sky hangs low in the sky, touching my bright blue skivvy and sticking it to my back, while my shoulder bag chafes the crook of my neck.

Our bags are full of letters with the logo for ‘Jill’s Upholstery Cleaning, est. 1999-2003’ printed on the envelopes. Elaine’s mum is paying us ten dollars an hour to deliver them. I find pleading works best with my mum, but how could I turn down the adventure of earning my own money?

As we slip our perfectly folded letters into unfamiliar letterboxes, Elaine asks me, “Are you ever going to ask Elliot out?”

“What?” I blink, totally caught off guard. She just sprung around with that scary mask on her face and it’s not even Halloween. “No,” I say when I’ve had enough time to process that question. “He’s probably not even gay, it’d cause him all sorts of strife with his parents, and, yeah, he’s not interested.”

“I suppose,” she says slowly. “Though it seems unlike you…”

“Maybe… But it’s not like I let him get away with ignoring me.”

“True…but it’s unlike you to keep secrets. Is it?” Now she seems uncertain.

“You're right!” I reassure her. “I won’t deny it – I want to scream that I like him to the top of the clouds.” Sometimes I feel like the secret _is_ screaming, but it's trapped inside me, the sound suffocating in the confines of my skin.

“And it’s unlike you to deny yourself that wish!” she says like a scientist discovering a new formula.

“Oh my God! Do I have some self-control?” I exclaim. That certainly _is_ a revelation!

“Let’s test it,” she says. “ _Don’t_ throw a bunch of letters at me, Andrew.”

I look down at the letters in my shoulder bag, and find a bunch of them in my fist, crumpling like lolly wrappers.

“Don’t,” she warns, and I can see in her eyes that she _truly_ doesn’t want me to. “ _Andrew_!” she squeals, shielding herself as the letters leave my hand and fly at her face. Oh, that felt good!

“What?” I ask her glaring face. “You told me to! I mean, told me not to… You know what I’m like!”

“Don’t pick them up,” she says, pointing to the letters scattered at her feet, one sad corner drooping into a puddle.

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m not falling for reverse psychology.”

She huffs and bends down to scoop them up, then she’s swinging her arm back and they’re flying right at my face.

“Jeez, woman!” I bat them away from me. “A corner almost poked me in the eye!”

“Oh, you poor thing!” she says, wrinkling her nose at me and moving on to the next letter box, leaving me to pick up the scattered letters. “Come on! If we take too long, Mum’ll just decide on a flat-rate for our wages.”

“She’s sneaky, your mum! Or sees through our sneaky.” I run to catch up with her. "Why does she make you do stuff for pocket money, anyway?"

She laughs, clutching her shoulder bag to her stomach. "Because that's how people live, these days."

I pout at her.

"One day," she says, "when you run away or get kicked out of home, you're gonna regret spending all your pocket money on hairspray."

"I don't spend _all_ of it on hairspray," I say, touching the top of my quiff. "Imagine a hundred dollars of hair spray!"

"How often do you receive this hundred?" She narrows her eyes.

I purse my lips and back away, clutching the strap of my bag. "Once a month."

"Fuck you!" She throws another letter at me, then points at my chest. "My next birthday, you're buying me a grand piano!"

"I thought you told me to save!"

~*~

I flounce down a corridor after a toilet break where I hid in a cubicle, put on the voices of two girls and pretended to have a conversation. It weirded a couple of guys out until Francis Rimble guessed it was me.

Noticing a beautiful head of strawberry-blond hair down the hallway, I slow down, intending to go pester him. But, crud, he’s with Miranda. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but she’s got that awful, condescending look on her face and he’s all pale and just standing there looking at her shoes, so adorable! But with her? Ick! Though I’m sure his _parents_ would approve.

“He _so_ likes her,” Dylan Hentord snickers from behind me. “Hasn’t got a chance. It’d be sad if it wasn’t funny.”

I tear my eyes away from them and turn to frown at him, pulling my navy and blue blazer by the lapel. “Who the hell would want a chance with _her_?” I ask. Whoops, sounded a bit angry there. Um, maybe because I am?

“Who the hell wouldn’t? _Look at her_ ,” he says, gesturing her way.

I turn and look at her curls and her curves and the shape of her thighs through her tight skirt, making bumpy ridges form down the middle, like a ladder. Has she rolled the waistband? Maybe I should point that out to Mrs Flenworthy.

“Yeah right. People don’t _like_ people just because other people say they do,” I say, turning back to Dylan and sweeping past him like an affronted Marquise.

No, he doesn’t like her, ew.

~*~

When we’re walking home from school together, the afternoon sunlight bounces off his hair and hits me in the eye. I squint into it for a moment, then look away. I really really really want to ask him about Miranda, but, oh God, what if he says – ngah! Can’t even think it! Don’t ask him, you fool!

So I don’t. And I won’t. And I talk about much more delightful stuff, like how Adam Ant revolutionised the way music videos were made, which I’m sure is just _enthralling_ him, and how I’ll revolutionise the way guitar is played and lyrics are sung, and Elaine will bring bands with keyboards back into vogue.

And then he asks, seeming to twist uncomfortably in his own body, “Are you and Elaine…you know?”

“What?” I grin. “A pair of loons?”

He smirks a moment, then grimaces again. “No…you know, going out or something? Sorry to pry.”

I almost choke, and then a hysterical laugh escapes my throat. “Oh, no no no no no!” I say, surprised at how much I want that word to impress itself into his brain. But of course I’d care what he thinks about that… It’s just that I’m not used to caring about what someone thinks this much. “You couldn’t be further from the truth,” I add.

“You don’t like her?” He looks surprised.

“I do,” I say, then quickly tag on, “but not like that!”

“Really?” I can see his curiousness, and – ah – it’s gone now, batted away by his eyelashes.

“I know she’s pretty and everything; I just don’t like her like that. Do you like her?” Oh God, did I just ask that? What the hell? PLEASE SAY NO!

He laughs nervously and says, “I dunno…yeah, I guess not like that, either…”

…

There’s an almost hysterical tone to my voice for the rest of the trip home.

~*~

A tragedy has happened. I didn’t _really_ want it to happen; I just thought about it sometimes…you know…the possibility…with fondness. If I were stupid, I’d think it was my fault for wishing for it sometimes, but it’s got nothing to do with me, so I won’t.

Dinner at the Hunters’ was sombre tonight, though everyone tried to remain cheerful. But not too cheerful, for that would seem mean, like laughing when someone says they’ve got a brain tumour. Except for Marilyn, the bitch.

Yes, that’s a dead giveaway that the tragedy belongs to Elliot. It belongs to him alone, and he’s carrying it around with him, tucked into himself, hoping no one can see it. But a shroud draped over something will still show its shape, and it’s almost like his whole body has taken on the shape of this tragedy. Which is even more slumped than usual.

Yesterday, Spark was found dead on Elliot’s bed. It seems a bit selfish that she would forever taint his sheets with her death, but he’ll probably be grateful that she spent her last breaths amongst his smell. Oh, who can blame her? _I’d_ do that, too.

Elliot, Rebecca and I are sitting in their lounge while the adults and Amy are out on the deck. The chatter from outside, filtering through the French doors like the evening sun, is the loudest sound in the room. Something’s stuck in my usually over-active vocal chords.

Rebecca’s eyes are ringed with red and she keeps looking over at Elliot, but never manages to catch his eye. She gives me a look, every now and then, as if to say, _What should I do? Please please help me_. But I don’t know, either.

Elliot's face looks like a porcelain doll’s, motionless, almost blank. But the sorrow is there, in the deepness of his green eyes and the strained set of his mouth, weighing upon his languid limbs as he rips strips off the pot-plant beside him. There’s a small pile of leaf pieces on the ground underneath his hand, and I wonder if that’s his version of crying. No, he’ll probably cry his face off as soon as he’s alone. Is that why he’s staying with us?

Our bubble of safety is popped as the adults' noise lances through the room, fabrics swishing, mouths babbling, the door slamming. Marilyn’s eyes instantly focus on Elliot, like Mrs Flenworthy’s lasers, and light up with the most _horrific_ rage.

He doesn’t seem to see her, at first, until her voice seeps out in an icy mist. “Don’t you _dare_ do that to my plant.”

He looks her directly in the eyes and pulls off another piece of green.

“What did I tell you? You little brat. You’ve been a royal sulk ever since that blasted cat died.”

He stares at her for a moment, then blinks against the shards of misery in his eyes. When they open, the shards are hidden, pressed inside him, only anger left.

With a silence that slices through everyone, he stands up, walks around the side of the couch, kicks the pot-plant with such force that it splits open on the ground, and is gone, up to his room, soil, leaves and teracotta strewn across the path he’s taken.

“You bitch!” I yell at Marilyn before racing up after him.

I am confronted by his bedroom door, a white, blank barrier that seems to say, ‘You’re not allowed in here,’ so I go in.

I call tell from his face that this is unheard of; not even Rebecca disturbs him when he shuts himself away like this. I catch a glimpse of tears before his face is hidden behind a book and two pieces of lego fall from his lap to the floor.

“Um, I don’t want to talk right now,” he says, obviously trying to say ‘ _get out_ ’ in a nice way.

“I just...wanted to tell you...how brave and awesome that was,” I say, stepping forwards.

“Thank you. Now, _please_ go,” he says, his voice cracking a bit.

“I think you’re awesome, full stop,” I say, and _my_ voice is shaking – what the hell is up with that?

I sit down on his bed and remove the book, revealing his wet, pale, tortured face, and it’s so beautiful and my lips are on his, _and my lips are on his_?! What the hell am I doing? He’s not pulling back; he’s not reciprocating; he’s just sitting there, motionless.

I pull back, and something else is on his face and I don’t get it, but he’s not mad. He leans forward to return the kiss, but I lean back, and now he just looks confused.

“Don’t you…like Miranda?” I ask, and he opens and closes his mouth in disbelief.

“No,” his incredulous answer finally comes. “That’s a stupid rumour.”

“I think you do. You shouldn’t be running off with me.”

“What? No – I swear, I don’t!” The desperation in his eyes seems brighter for the tears they’re swimming in.

“No, no,” I say dismissively. “You should ask her out.”

“But I don’t want to,” he says, voice clenched in anger.

“I know she’s popular, but you’ve probably got an alright chance with her.”

“I. DON’T. LIKE. HER.”

I just shake my head. “You’re not fooling me.”

“What was – that – just then?”

“That was me showing myself that I really have no self-control.”

“Was it a joke?” he says, reeling back.

“’Course not! Now, I’m sorry for inflicting it upon you.” I pat his arm and watch his eyes spark with even more anger. “I hope you can just forget about it.” I look at him pointedly.

“No,” he says, so much stubbornness packed into two letters.

“As you wish,” I say, jumping up and walking backwards towards the door, in the hopes of escaping from the room and his face that’s making my brain feel like it’s floating unsupported in my head.

“Wait.” He gets up, but his bare foot steps right on the lego, and I briefly see him fall back onto his bed, cradling his foot, before I’m gone from the room.

Whew! Got out of that one!

I run downstairs, fevered glee on my face that everyone else obviously finds inappropriate.

“I think he’s going to be alright! Give him lots of cuddles!” I say, as I speed past them.

“Where are you going?” Mum asks, and I realise I’m half-way out the door.

“Uh…for a run!” I say, and I’m off down the road.

I saw him; _I saw him_ , not just his outer shell, but _him_ , and, oh, he was beautiful! I kissed him; I kissed him, and I shouldn’t have, but it _felt so good_! Nine years pent up and frustrated, released in one tiny moment. Or do I feel _more_ restless, now? My head feels light and like it’s going to explode at the same time, and my limbs feel like they’re tangled in a blanket. Running isn’t helping; I wish I could stretch my legs fifty metres in front of me, but instead I have to slow down to stop myself from getting an asthma attack.

For the rest of the night, I refuse all sugar’s entry into my mouth but I still feel hyper, and I eventually flop into my bed and toss and turn and fantasise for a couple of hours until I drift off, an unheard of amount of time for me to fall asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, I know the next morning after I infuriated him to high heaven is probably a bit soon to be visiting Elliot, but, you know, whatever. Besides, I have to make sure he’s not sad today.

I knock a jaunty rhythm on his front door as I try to chase away this really errant thought that I’m _nervous_. Ha. That part of my brain has clearly forgotten who I am.

The door swings open and he’s standing here in front of me and he looks tired and scruffy like he just got up and chucked his uniform on without looking in the mirror but still so adorable and my heart starts beating fast but not jaunty and oh God make it stop.

“Hi Elliot!” I chirp, trying to ignore the burning that’s creeping down my neck, to my shoulders, down my arms, making my fingertips tingle. “Wanna walk to school together?”

“Uh…” He stares at me like I’ve woken him up in the middle of the night and asked him to solve a university level maths equation. “Sure, okay. Just…let me finish my breakfast.” He trudges inside, and I follow him into the dining room, to the teak table and chairs. He sits in front of a plate of strawberry jam toast without looking at me, even when I sit right in front of him. He’s holding his toast with the kind of precision that means no jammy hands. But then he drops it, and I can’t work out why, until I notice his hands are shaking slightly and his eyes aren’t quite focused and his face is paler than usual.

“You’re quiet today,” he says, his voice shaking like his hands.

Oh wow. I haven’t said anything.

“Sorry!” I say, a bit too loud. “World must’ve exploded.”

He laughs a little, quiet laugh and manages to get the toast into his mouth. A crimson line of jam sticks to his lips until his tongue slides out and draws it in where it belongs.

“So!” I say. “How about that maths test? I, for one, am not looking forward to getting my mark back, because _someone_ is going to end up giving me a lecture about it. I hope it’s not Dad. At least with the teachers, you can escape them at the end of class. But you probably did really well, ay?”

“I hope I did alright,” he says absently, then polishes off the rest of his toast. “So, um, were we going to talk about yesterday?”

I blink at him for a moment. “No…”

He sighs. “Okay, but you have to at least tell me what possessed you to do that _sometime_.”

“I already told you _that_ ,” I say.

“Nothing that made sense…”

“Sure it did!” I say brightly. “Now, let’s go to school.”

“Fine.” He gets up and stomps over to chuck his plate in the sink. I’m pretty sure I heard some china chipping.

~*~

When we get to school, I spy Miranda out of the corner of my beady, busybodying, but pretty blue eye and push Elliot down the B block hallways, into her line of view. _Success_ , she’s honed in on him. He just stands there, shoulders hunched, leaning against an off-white locker, while her mouth opens and closes over and over again.

Carmen skips over to them and starts talking with a tone and expression that suggest she’s found a pirate’s buried treasure. His posture straightens a little.

Oh yeah, her. She’s friends with Elliot but doesn’t sit with him at lunch-time because she’s always off doing some extra-curricular activity. She thinks I’m going to hell and doesn’t talk to me very often.

As she gesticulates, I forget that she’s encroaching on Elliot and Miranda, and move closer.

“And then the little ducklings swam right up to me!!” Okay, not what I was expecting.

“Hey, Carmen!” I say, popping up behind her. She turns around, nose wrinkled. “What was that you were saying about baby ducks? Come over and tell me at my locker.”

She doesn’t look like she wants to go anywhere. Elliot looks like he wants to hit me.

“Never mind that,” he says. “I want to talk to _you_ about something at your locker.”

“But I want to hear about Carmen’s baby ducks!” I protest as he leads me away by the sleeve.

Carmen and Miranda recede into the distance and start talking to Mr Kentle – probably about that stupid choir. _Drat_ , I have to look for another way out of the inevitable confrontation.

“Now, Elliot, you wouldn’t talk about this at _school_ , would you?” I bat my eyelashes.

He hunches again. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the play.”

“Oh yes!” I say. “You can come to rehearsals and see what’s happening, if you want. Mrs Abeland and Mr Damask have been awesome! For teachers, anyway. You know, there’s something fishy about their relationship, isn’t there? Are teachers allowed to fuck each other here? I mean, not _here_ , obviously, but – are teachers from this school allowed to be, well, _anything_ with each other? Wouldn’t that be awesome if they were? Do you think they _really_ are?”

While I’m catching my breath, Elliot butts in, “How the hell should I know? Why are you thinking about that? I just wanted to talk to you about connecting my laptop to the sound and lighting system in the hall. The school’s one isn’t as good.”

“Oh! Yeah, I’m sure that’d be no problem,” I say. His frown abates a bit, turning into a pout. “Do you want to sit with me and Elaine this lunchtime?” Well, that was sudden.

He smiles, clearly despite himself. “Yes,” he nods.

~*~

Sitting with Elaine and me, on our end of the bench outside Mrs Abeland’s classroom, Elliot stares across the courtyard, clutching his lunchbox. His friends are sitting on that new bench on the other side, by the school hall. Six sets of black hair in a row, passing packets of biscuits between them. Lacey stares back at Elliot, and says something to Dan, who follows her gaze.

“They don’t even talk to you,” I say.

“They do,” he protests. “I guess not very often, but they’re still my friends, and I don’t really mind it.”

“You don’t mind being ignored by your friends?” Elaine asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“No…” He stares at the bench under us and flicks at a curl of peeling paint. “You put it so negatively. It’s not such a bad thing. Sometimes, I prefer it.”

“Well, _I_ couldn’t bear it,” I say.

Elaine snorts with laughter. “You’d lose it and force them to pay attention to you.”

Elliot nods. “We’re quite different.”

“Not in _all_ ways, though.” I think Elaine’s trying to do some surgery on the situation, there. She has no idea about what happened the other day and thinks Elliot sitting with us is a great development. I know for sure that Elliot’s not going to tell her.

Elliot’s looking at me curiously, shyly, like he wants to say something but can’t, while fidgeting with the point of his tie. Now, sometimes, I catch a smile on his face that makes me realise he’s even more beautiful than the over-romanticised picture I have of him in my head. It is knowing, sly and intense, crooked up a little at one end, and his lips look so soft and lovely and I remember what they felt like and get all tingly and I realise that I haven’t talked in a while and that both of them are looking at me like I’ve gone crazy.

“I’m here!” I say, waving my hand across my face to wake me up a bit more.

“That’s what Elliot usually does!” Elaine says, laughing.

“Must be contagious,” Elliot says, and that smile is back and I have to pinch myself to stay awake.

~*~

That afternoon, I don’t get to walk home with him, because I have band practice, which isn’t just Elaine and I tinkering away under Mr Kentle’s disapproving gaze; we have a drum player and a bassist to make us feel far more complete and important.

I sit down on one of the brown couches in Benjamin’s living room, across from the giant TV and stereo, crammed into a space the size of my bedroom. Elaine hands Benjy the song we’ve now finished in Music class. It’s just a bunch of scribbles that may or may not look like notes on a piece of manuscript paper. Benjy blinks at it, while Lance reads over his shoulder, threading the fraying end of the couch arm through his fingers.

Benjy, our drummer, and Lance, our bassist, are best friends, just like Elaine and I. They work at a supermarket together, Benjy full time while he fluffs around deciding what he’d do if our band didn’t make it (that’s not worth the smallest brain activity!), and Lance part time while he studies Philosophy at Uni. I don’t think even he knows what he’s going to do with his degree when he gets it.

Benjy wears an ugly woollen hat, with not one strand of his ringlets peeking from under it. When his hair gets 'too long', he'll mow it all off. Elaine and I are perpetually plotting how we can steal that hat, and how we will weather the nostril-snorting, eye-popping rage that will follow. Lance, on the other hand, has the most beautiful hair imaginable, soft as baby duck feathers, blond, and down to his shoulders in layers. Elaine and I are perpetually thinking about stroking that hair, and, perhaps, snipping a piece off and keeping it in a locket for good luck.

Lance pulls at his sleeve with his teeth, releasing the wool from its knit in ever lengthening blue-grey tendrils, while they stare at the scribbly page. Elaine and I amuse ourselves by looking through her digital camera, which she is never without. Sometimes, she uses a giant fancy camera, but isn’t so obsessed that she’d take that everywhere.

We’re laughing over a picture of a puppy trying to eat my shoe in the park, when Benjy shakes a piece of paper in my direction, the edges torn and curled with either love or neglect.

“What kind of crap is this?” he says, “It's even worse than that song you wrote about the pencil sharpener.”

“That song was the greatest modern adventure story ever thrown in the bin!” I wield my finger accusingly at him, then sweep the piece of paper out of his hand.

Elaine leans in to peek over my shoulder. I read the first line, and my entire jaw feels like it's impacting in upon itself. How the hell did that end up with the real songs?

“Ha! Ha! Another one for the bin!” I say like a robot in 'cheerful' mode, crushing the paper in my fist.

“Wait – wait!” Elaine reaches for it, and I clutch it to my chest, using my back as a shield. “What was that about 'the smile that flutters at the lips that I could know'?”

Lance jumps, as though he's been startled awake. “You wrote that?”

“I wrote nothing!” I wail, diving down and flattening the paper between my chest and the seat of the couch as Elaine pulls at my shoulders.

Lance gets up and tugs at her elbow, allowing me to scramble out from under her.

"Andrew’s allowed secret songs," he says, voice like low-fat milk. "Let's go practice."

He makes for the door to Benjy's garage, which leads off the front hallway.

“Spiffing idea!” I say, and follow him to the unused side of the garage. And when I say unused, I mean lined with shelves overflowing with power tools, papers, grimy books and burnt or broken kitchen appliances. Our instruments stand or lean next to them. The light is flecked with pale dust motes, but they still manage to gleam in sharp, firm curves and angles.

If you’re wondering what our band name is, we’re still discussing that. These discussions sometimes involve politeness and sometimes involve maiming. I should probably come up with something halfway decent, soon, because I suspect they’re not even listening to me anymore. Not even I want to be known as Protractor of Doom when we make it big.

As we practice, the music swells up until it sounds bigger than me, more important than me, yet it inflates my importance, all the same. I may just be an instrument, bending towards the greater good of musical harmony, but I'm _two_ instruments, and the two best ones.

Elaine fumbles a chord transition, making my voice trill down that same incorrect path, and we simultaneously let our diapason burst in a fit of giggles. Benjy's groan joins in, followed by the clack of his drumsticks, one hitting the neck of my guitar and the other bouncing off the top of Elaine's keyboard.

"Focus, guys," he says.

"Sorry!" Elaine says through her giggles.

"Don't worry about it," Lance says, though Benjy's frown hasn't relaxed. "When you make a mistake, just pretend it was supposed to sound like that."

One of the drumsticks rolls its way over to Lance's foot like a child running towards its mother, and he picks it up and lobs it back to Benjy. Who...looks like he might throw it again. I pick the other one up off the concrete floor and launch my arm back, throwing it as hard as he threw it at me, but it sails right past his head and hits the far wall. We all burst into laughter, even Benjy, with a triumphant gloss over his eyes.

"Fiddlesticks!" I curse, and play a defeated chord on my guitar.

~*~

Elliot plods along the sand, following our parents, while I have to stick to a tendon-straining slow pace to keep from overtaking him. Dad's carrying the chilli bin and a bag of towels, the early afternoon sun glinting off his slick brow, while Mum, Gregory and Marilyn carry a bag each. Marilyn points to a flat ridge of sand, where Rebecca and her friend Casey are sprawled on towels. Everyone ambles over to it and drops their bags. Amy prances about them, whacking lumps of sand and rock with her pink bucket.

I shuffle up beside Elliot, kicking sand up his legs as I walk, leaving tiny grains of it stuck to the fine hairs on his calves.

“Hey!” He turns to me in annoyance, but he’s laughing.

“Serves you right for wearing sneakers to the beach,” I say, but I stop my attack.

He shakes the sand off his shoes, though it just shuffles what’s in his socks even further down.

“Ugh.” He frowns at me in the most adorably funny way and kicks some sand back at me.

“Ha!” I shake it out of my jandals with ease.

He sighs and closes his eyes, conceding with a nod.

“Where’s David?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. “He’s too _cool_ to come to a family beach outing.”

“Wish I was.” He grimaces.

Oh, my heart is torn asunder!

“No you don’t!” I say, and my voice is perhaps a bit too high pitched. “Then you wouldn’t have gotten to see this!” I point to a dead fish a little way away from us.

He stares at it for a moment, then looks at me. “What a shame that would’ve been,” he says in a deadpan voice. Then we both laugh, and his face and his voice are so magical I could just die, because I made him that happy and put that gleam in his eyes and made his mouth try to touch his cheekbones and his laugh so free, and then I step on something like a soft, smooth log and trip forwards into more of the logs and get a face full of towel.

Two shrieks, another beautiful laugh. I sit up and realise those logs are actually the backs of Casey and Rebecca’s legs. They’re lying front-down on their towels and twisting round to glare at me.

“Andrew! Watch where you’re going,” Rebecca frowns at me, while Casey's mouth hangs open in outrage. Probably because the leg I stepped on was one of hers.

“Sorry, ladies!” I jump up. “Wasn’t looking where I was going!” Was blinded to all around me, more like. “Are you hurt?”

“Only a bit,” Rebecca says as they curl their legs up and rub them. Or maybe they’re trying to wipe the Andy-cooties off them.

“Spiffing! Cheerio!” I bound to where Elliot is, a little way away.

He’s biting his lip and shaking with laughter, and looks, well, the only way I can describe it is _proud of me_. Oh my!

“I didn’t see them, either,” he says, and it feels like my heart is being stabbed with joy because that means he was distracted by me like I was distracted by him. “You look happy for someone who almost maimed a couple of girls.”

“You look happy for someone who just watched me almost maim a couple of girls, especially when one of those girls is his sister,” I say with a grin.

“Eh,” he shrugs. “Serves her right for bringing a friend on a family beach outing.”

I consider Rebecca for a moment. Her bikini is a blue version of the green one Casey is wearing, and her sunglasses cover half of her face. No movement, save for her skin cells frying. I can't blame him for wishing she'd run around with us like she used to. But she's still the nicest one in that stupid family.

“At least you’ve got your other lovely sister to play with!” I gesture to Amy, who’s just escaped her mother’s sunblocky clutches and is racing towards us.

He raises his eyebrows at me. “Even better than the dead fish,” he says, his nose wrinkling above his grimace.

“Oh, you’re unimpressed, now,” I wag a finger at him. “But when we put them _together_..!” I clap my hands, then race off to the dead fish. I stare at its half-seagull-eaten, half-rotten flesh and spindly, yellowing bones for a second, before grabbing it by the fraying tail and flinging it at Amy.

Shriek. Score! Right in the face!

As she wails, Mum rushes over to her and takes her by the hand, leading her towards the surf and saying that they’ll wash it off in the sea. Marilyn stalks towards me, sand billowing about her legs. I look over at Elliot, who’s staring from me to Amy. Though his mouth is hanging open, I fancy it’s shaped a little like a smile. But no time to gawk! Gotta run!

I sprint down the beach, kicking up heaps of sand behind me so she can’t follow without getting an eye full. Did I get some down my throat? No. Oh crap. Asthma.

I stop and rest my hands on my knees, trying to slow my breathing down and keeping it shallow enough not to hurt my chest. The waves surge up and down the shore, sounding a little like the breath in my skull, so I synchronise them. But the sea flows with ease, little grains of sand no match for its force as it glitters under the open sky, while air rasps through my throat gingerly. I have to make the decision: death by Asthma or death by Marilyn.

Ah, I’ll brave her. What can she _really_ do?

So I make my way back down the beach, much slower than before, and everyone looks a tad confused until I get close enough for them to hear my rasping.

“Mum, do you have my inhaler?” I ask, playing up the pathetic, since it’s probably my only chance of surviving this.

“Serves you right.” Dad glares at me, while Mum searches frantically in her bag.

“No, dear, I don’t have it,” she says, rushing to me with glistening eyes. YES! If Marilyn wants to kill me, she’ll have to go through an upset Quinella, first! “It doesn’t sound like a bad one.” She rubs my arm and leads me to the wall separating the sand and grass areas; I lean against it.

Elliot sits down next to me and says, “It didn’t serve you right,” quietly. He looks so worried! Worried about me! Oh, what a wonderful day! He’s so pretty and sweet and I want to kiss him again. Or maybe I’m light-headed from a lack of air.

“Yay!” I slide sideways down the wall and rest my head on his shoulder. He doesn’t move at all, like he’s part of the wall, but a soft part that smells nice.

I time my rasps to the sound of his breaths, swelling through his chest, his shoulder and into my ear. Amy squats nearby, whacking a shell with her bucket. A seagull glides overhead. I hope it thinks she's food.

When I’ve regained my ability to breathe, we strip into our togs and run into the water. You’d think this’d mean getting to see Elliot shirtless. Yeah, no. He wears a rash-shirt with his board-shorts, so he might as well be wearing clothes. But the wetness does mean clinginess, and I can see the outline of his chest as it floats above the water. His hair is flattened and plastered to his forehead, droplets are edging his eyelashes, trails of water are coursing over his face, and he’s blinking rapidly.

"I can't see without my glasses," he says, squinting at me.

I want to say he still looks cute, but a wave of water rinses away the opportunity as Amy splashes over to us. She and Elliot get into a splashing war, the malice almost seeming playful, and maybe it is.

I play shark and dive under the water, snatching their legs and tripping them up. Though it might not be wise to interrupt their special little moment, the lack of attention is making me want to pull their hair and whine.

Eventually, the other two get tired and slouch back to shore. Like hell I’m staying out here by myself, so I chase after them. I’m sure if I bury their wet bodies in sand they’ll get back in the water!

The wind pinches at my skin as I approach the encampment, where Elliot and Amy have settled amongst the adults.

“Elliot, you’re getting my bag all wet!” Marilyn says, grabbing her plastic beach bag. I don’t hear her complaining about Amy sitting on her lap without a towel.

“Sorry,” Elliot mutters, sounding terrifically un-genuine.

“He also tried to drown me!” Amy says.

“Elliot!” Marilyn's voice is as rough as her sandy feet.

“The drowning was kind of mutual,” I say, standing before them.

“Elliot should be setting a good example,” Marilyn says as though I’m the new culprit.

I roll my eyes and sit on the sand next to Elliot, who’s trying to rub salt water out of his eye, flicking his eyelashes upwards, jaw clenched, free hand gripping his knee.

“Elliot!” Marilyn snaps, making him jump and almost poke his eye out.

“What?” he gets out through gritted teeth, looking like he wants to poke _her_ eye out.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” The words seethe out of her mouth like poisonous vapour.

“I'm trying to get grit out of my eye.” The tension emanating from his glaring eyes is kind of sexy… But also scary.

“You can do that later.” She’s just as scary. And not sexy. SHUDDER.

“No, I’m doing it now.” And he’s off down the beach to pluck at his eye on his own, gulls scattering away from him, and even I’m too afraid to follow.

“God, he's just like his grandfather,” Marilyn growls.

I'm about to call her a bitch for the second time this week, when Dad says, “That's not fair.”

Gregory puts a hand on Marilyn's shoulder, turning his head so she can't see his grimace.

“Why don't you concentrate on controlling your own son?” she spits.

Mum's voice tips to and fro as she suggests a game of cards, and they're all soon laughing, even at Marilyn's stupid, so not funny jokes.

~*~

Elliot gets out of the Hunters’ car, sand still trickling from his sneakers, and trudges into their house. The rest of the family follow, Gregory bringing up the rear, scraping the family’s beach bags past the door-frame. Before the door can shut, I run up and kick it open, infiltrating the house like a seasoned criminal. Galloping up the stairs, I startle Rebecca, who’s leaning against the wall outside Elliot’s closed bedroom door.

“Here for Elliot?” she asks, shifting her weight off the wall.

“Yup.” I swing on the bannister as I turn to face her.

“He won't open the door.” Her shoulders hang low. She sucks her cheek between her teeth. "He never does. Come back later.”

She retreats down the hallway and into her own room. The thump of her door against its frame reverberates down the wall, making Elliot's door rattle. I press my nose against it.

“Elliot!” I call in a sing-song voice.

No answer. I try the handle, and the door swings open with a whine. I guess he didn't expect anyone to try that.

He's sprawled on his bed with his eyes closed, no movement. Asleep? At 4pm? So quickly? Is being in a bad mood tiring or something?

I bound up to him and jump on the bed. His limbs only jostle, so I prod his curiously cold cheek, shake his shoulders, ruffle his hair and say “wake up!” right in his ear.

Holy crap, is he dead?

No, he’s breathing, chest going up, down, up, down, same pace as usual. And I always imagined dead people’s hands would go all slack, not balled into fists. I pull a finger out of place, and spy something blue within that fist. A piece of Lego. In his other fist, a yellow one. I take them off him and stare at them. They look like they came from a generic set. As I draw them together, they sort of feel like magnets, attracted to each other at the right ends. I let them click together.

Elliot yelps an insensible syllable and jerks upright, making my skin jar like it’s moved a centimetre across my body. He stares at me, eyes wide and unfocused, and puts a hand to his head.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” he says.

I can almost hear his heart yammering against his chest. Mine’s yammering too.

He stares at the Lego in my hands, and I hand them to him, saying, “I borrowed your Lego for a second. Sorry I startled you.” Though I’m not really sure _how_ I startled him.

He takes the Lego and stares dumbly at them for a moment, then looks at me with those wide eyes and a frown that I don't get, but it doesn't seem angry or sad.

“It’s okay,” he finally says, putting the Lego on his bedside table, next to the glowing green numbers of his clock-radio. “Sorry for being weird.”

“No problemo, but what was that all about?” I ask.

“Uh. Don’t worry about it. Just got startled when you took the Lego off me, I guess,” he says, still staring at the Lego, voice displaced from his words.

“Ooookay,” I say. “You’re not going to tell me what really went on?”

He turns to me, eyes focusing, scant colour draining from his skin. His eyebrows arch. “You feel unsatisfied with that explanation?”

“Yes. Yes I do.” I nod.

“Are you frustrated?” I’m sensing some sarcasm here…

“A bit…”

“Good,” he says.

“Oh,” I say. “That’s spiteful.”

He shrugs, then swings his legs over the side of the bed, only a few centimetres of air and cloth away from my own legs.

We sit in silence while I try to think of something to say that isn’t ‘Hey, remember last time you had a fight with your mum and shut yourself in your room and then we ended up sitting on your bed like this?’

On his desk sits a computer hard drive. A little doorway in the front hangs open, and tiny points of light shine in the dark within. Maybe I should ask him about it. Or maybe I should ask him for a kiss. No. Wait.

“Feel familiar?” he asks.

Damn.

“No, it does not.” I smile sweetly at him.

“Liar.” He punches me lightly on the arm.

I pout and rub the spot, which only hurts slightly, but it doesn’t pay to acknowledge that.

“Everyone thinks your mum's mean," I say.

“I know,” he says in a tone that kind of contradicts his words.

“Good.” I smile at him.

His chest rises and he looks like he’s going to do something, like a cat about to dart its paw out, but then he deflates and says, “Damn you.”

~*~

I chew on my lip and look at Elaine, sitting next to me and picking at her nails. So, now is the time for minor self-mutilation, is it? Fair enough.

We're sitting like a two-student class in front of Mr Kentle, in the music room. The keyboards laid out on each desk grimace at us.

Mr Kentle stares at the piece of paper in his hand, fresh from Elaine's mum's slow-as-fuck bubble jet printer. We spent most of last night writing up a proposal for our play, and now he's reading it with all the judgement he feels for us.

The page rustles in his grip, and I jump, making my chair leg scrape across the lino floor and filling the quiet room with a screech. Elaine glares at me, and I press my lips into each other, as though the sound came from my mouth.

Oh, how I'd love to say _something_. Something like 'please please please let us do the play; I know you hate us but please'. But I'm supposed to be shutting up, apparently.

Mr Kentle stands and smiles at us, laying the proposal on his desk. My own grin is probably manic.

“Sounds like a great idea. Of course you can put it on,” he says as though we wouldn't have just gone and done it anyway.

“Thank you!” Elaine gushes.

I give her a high-five and say, “Awesome!”

Victory over the enemy!

Oh, wait, we have to work with him. Damn.


	5. Chapter 5

“Andrew!” David calls out. “Elliot’s here to see you!”

I spring up from my bed, flinging my guitar away from me. It twangs sadly as it falls against my blue carpet. I sprint down the stairs and jump down the last four steps. My foot thwacks to the ground, shock reverberating up my leg.

“Are you okay?!” Elliot rushes to me. “Why the hell...?”

I roll on to the floor, holding my leg, and whimper, “I don’t know…seemed like a good idea at the time…”

“Come on.” He pulls at my arm. I play up the pathetic and let him take most of my weight. “I know you’re not this heavy,” he says, and releases me to the floor again.

He sits down on the carpet beside me, and I ask, “How come you’re here?”

“I wanted to go to lunch with you. But if I’m not welcome…” He looks at me sideways.

Hefting myself up into a sitting position, I say, “I just jumped down half a flight of stairs to see you – what do you think?”

“Didn’t look like half a flight to me.” He smiles. “Don’t exaggerate your excitement.”

“There is no way to exaggerate my excitement. Ever,” I say, and we both laugh.

“Where did you have in mind for lunch?” I ask.

He looks down at his crossed legs. “McDonalds.”

“Ooooh, naughty!” I exclaim.

“Don’t tell anyone I eat there,” he says firmly. “I’m _really_ trusting you with this.”

“You’re supposed to be a vegetarian!” I squeal before his hand goes over my mouth. Oh, that again! It almost moulds to the shape of my face, while my breath gets caught in the crevices.

“My parents would _kill_ me if they knew I eat meat,” he says, desperation shimmering from his eyes.

“I thought you were a good boy,” I say when he takes his hand off my mouth.

“I am,” he says. “But I’m not letting them dictate stuff like that to me. That’s what I wanted to show you. I _do_ do things Mum and Dad would hate – just…no one knows about it.”

“So…you eat meat…in secret?”

“Yes. Not much, but…enough.”

“Not enough to get some colour in your cheeks.” I poke one of them.

He covers it with his hand. “I’m too pale…”

“You're lovely!”

He goes even paler, looks down and fidgets with the end of his pant leg. His mouth is pressed together in an embarrassed, adorable line. Oops, staring at him dreamily won't help him forget about the kiss. Stop burning, you stupid face.

Before he can broach the subject again, I say, “Shall we embark on this illicit lunch, then?” and get up, bouncing back up the stairs for my wallet.

“What about your leg?” he calls up after me.

“What leg? Oh, that! Yeah, it’s fine!” I say. “I’ve got an _amazing_ recovery rate!”

We take the bus to the nearest McDonalds, while I natter on about everything I see, from a puppy out the window to the smelly old man in front of us that keeps belching, getting me shushed by Elliot a few times.

When we get there, we file off the bus and dodge our way past the other pedestrians. Standing by McDonalds' automatic doors, he looks so pleased with himself, like a cat with a bowl of blue-top milk. How can someone be so _cute?_ My insides feel like a contracted spring, making me almost stamp my foot in frustration, and then my arms are flinging themselves out and around his ever-stiffening torso in a gigantic hug.

“Uh, okay,” he says, patting my arm awkwardly, while an old couple glances at us as they pass. “If you’re going to change your mind, don’t do it in the middle of the street.”

“I’m just hugging you, jeez, cool yer boots.” I let him go.

He relaxes, and looks relieved. I wonder if me changing my mind in public is even worse than not changing my mind at all, in his head. That’s unfortunate. How can I go out with someone who wants to hide things from the glorious attention others can give? Oh, wait, I’m not supposed to be going out with him, am I? That’s alright, then.

“Come on.” Elliot walks into the greasy meat domain of rebellion. “Now, remember, don’t tell anyone, because I really really really don’t want Mum and Dad to find out.”

“Right. No telling.” I nod, zipping my lips. “What do you think they’d do if they found out? I’d just like to see their reaction…”

“ _No_ ,” he says, a wild tone to his voice. “Their reaction would not be funny. It would be awful. I would die. Because they would kill me. _Now, don’t tell them_.” He’s trying so valiantly to hammer those words into my brain, but they’re bending on my impermeable skull.

“You should eat some meat in front of them…just to see what they’d do. _Or_ act like you’re going to, but not actually. You never know – they might just get so angry they implode! Besides, what can they _actually_ do to you?”

“ _Kill me._ ” His eyes are firm and piercing.

He turns on his heel and walks up to the counter before I can tell him he needs to take a chill pill.

Once we've been served, we edge past the milling people (okay, Elliot edges, I bowl right past them so _they_ have to get out of the way) and find a plastic booth to sit in, clacking our plastic trays onto the table.

Elliot’s bought a gigantic burger filled with meat patties, plus the mandatory fries and drink, while I’ve got a large soft-drink, a chocolate sundae, an apple pie, and a cheeseburger.

“How are you so skinny?” He frowns at my pile of sugary goodness.

“I dunno,” I say around my straw. “Is it possible to burn all of this up? I do move pretty much constantly.” It’s true; even now I’m shifting in my seat to stop myself getting restless.

When my pile of food is gone and I race back to the counter and order another apple pie, he follows suit, grumbling about how he doesn't really need one.

“You're being too impressionable! Do the _opposite_ of what everyone else is doing!” I say.

“So…if everyone else is breathing, I should stop?”

“Exactly! That’s why I’ve got asthma. It's my lungs reviling against the conformity to breathe.” He thought he had me there.

When the lady behind the counter hands us our apple pies, I wolf mine down before we get back to our booth. Now the seats seem too small, encased in off-white plastic. I want to play on a see-saw or something.

“Let’s go to the park!” I say. “There’s one around the corner, isn’t there?”

Elliot shrugs. “I think so. Haven’t been to it in ages.”

“You’re like a little bat coming out of your cave!” I say, pulling him by the sleeve out of McDonalds and onto the street.

A gust of wind flies through my ears, jingling my thoughts like chimes. Still hanging onto Elliot's sleeve, I dart across the road. Once we're on the other side, his palm whacks into my ear, stinging slightly.

“Did you even check for traffic?” he exclaims. “That was a busy road, _and_ there’s a crossing, like, two centimetres away.”

“The cars all stopped for us, didn’t they?” I ruffle his hair, and he bats my hand away. “We didn’t get hurt! Don’t be such a worry-wart.”

“Don’t be so _reckless_ ,” he says through his teeth, glaring death at me (jeez, isn’t he the one who wants to avoid death?) and stomping off down the footpath.

When I catch up to him easily, he says, “Don’t do it again,” and glares at me when I roll my eyes and huff.

I walk along with him, past more fast food chains, a dairy and the tempting lollies behind its newspapered windows, until the shops turn into houses, then green fields and trees. I chat away to him, dissolving his glare in my frivolity, so that it’s pretty much gone by the time we get to the park.

“Last one to the see-saw’s a rotten egg!” I shout, running off at a speed that, yes, I do admit, is completely showing off. My shoes scrape through dirt and grass, kicking it up behind me like Roadrunner.

I crash into the see-saw, doubling up over its cold, metal beam, and crouch down on the ground, trying to get my breath back.

“I haven’t heard that line in years.” He jogs slowly up to me.

I gasp a few more times, then try to answer him, then gasp a bit more. The familiar feeling of the air feeling thick and ungainly as it squeezes into my throat worsens.

“Are you alright?” He kneels down by me and stares at my face, concern in his voice and eyes. “Your throat’s sucking in heaps at the base,” he says, pointing at my lower throat, almost touching, sending a little pang of longing through the fog of panic I’m feeling. “That’s not normal, is it?”

“Asthma,” I rasp out, and his eyes go wide.

“Where’s your inhaler?!”

He starts checking my pockets, and I enjoy his touch there for a moment before replying, “At home?”

“What?!” His panic looks worse than mine, which is thumping at my head, now. “What should we do?!”

“I don’t know!” I shake my head, mind blank to all but the thick air and Elliot's face swimming close to mine.

“Oh crap,” he whimpers, body frozen, eyes darting, until he suddenly gets out his mobile.

“It’ll go away in a bit.” I wave my hand at the mobile.

“I’m ringing a taxi and we’re going back to your house,” he says as he punches in the numbers. His voice is shaking when he answers the automated machine, and he has to repeat ‘ready now’ three times because it doesn’t understand him.

Then we wait, him breathing as if my asthma is contagious and we’re going to have to deal with two invalids in a moment. The air doesn’t just feel thick through my air pipes; it feels thick all around me, with tension, and neither of us can keep still, fidgeting as we sit on the concrete base of the see-saw, but there’s nothing we can do until the taxi comes and my head is fizzing with that knowledge.

A taxi rolls by, and we both turn our heads to it, but it doesn’t stop. Then another one, repeating the same process. And another, and I’m beginning to think they’re all one taxi, and it’s our one, but he doesn’t know where we are and is circling the block.

No, wait, there’s our one, and we’re rushing to it, but not rushing too fast or I might get worse.

We get in the back and Elliot tells the driver my address and that we need to get there as soon as possible. The driver looks formidable and empty-eyed in his ID photo, while his real eyes seep compassion and worry, staring wide at me. The gasp of his breath sounds so effortless.

“He’ll be alright if you go now,” Elliot says, a frantic edge to his voice.

The taxi man nods and turns to the front, hands firm on the wheel. He zooms away from the park. The trip that took us fifteen minutes on the bus takes us three in the taxi.

Elliot pays the man and we step out onto new concrete. My house looms up above us like a cardboard prop from a giant’s theatre stage. Where in that massive thing is my inhaler? With an empty brain and a house full of stuff, I’m doomed!

Elliot pulls me to the house, making me realise I’d been standing there like someone who can actually stay still for more than two seconds.

We’re in the house (wait – did I use my key, or was the door unlocked?), walking up to my room. Oh no. It was easier in the taxi – things were moving along without me having to do or think anything – but now it’s up to me.

“Where is it?” Elliot’s saying.

My chest hurts. Okay. Where’s my inhaler? I don’t know. I look around frantically and so does he, over my unmade bed, piles of schoolbooks, clothes, my guitar left lying across the middle of the floor, my desk that looks like a bombsite.

Elliot’s searching through it all, while I kind of help but not really, and then he’s shoving the inhaler in my mouth and lifting my hand up to it and I’m pressing the button and inhaling the puff of funny tasting air and _phew_.

I slump onto the bed as the Ventolin starts to work. My lungs breathe the air in greedily through newly widened pipes.

Elliot lays down beside me and stares at the ceiling with wide eyes.

“Thank you,” I eventually say. I really want to kiss him but he’d like that so I don’t.

“No problem.” He turns his head to look at me. My face is mirrored in each of his eyes. “Sorry I panicked.”

“What? You were awesome!" I slap my duvet, making a crater in the stuffing. "You just – did stuff – and fixed it. My brain just shut down. Couldn’t think properly.”

“Neither could I. But yeah. I just did stuff.” He looks back at the ceiling. “You shouldn’t forget your inhaler.”

“No…probably not. Especially if I insist on running around like a loon.” I grin and he laughs.

“But, honestly,” he says, “please take your inhaler with you everywhere. Or I might have a panic attack.”

“Alright, for _your_ health.” I swinging my hand over and ruffle his hair, or, try to, as in, wave my hand in his general head area as he ducks and shunts my arm away. “I wonder what would have happened if I’d been alone, or you’d freaked out like I did. Like…if I hadn’t gotten to an inhaler.”

“Let’s not think about that.” He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Just wondering… I guess someone would have found me. Whether I would still be breathing by that stage is another story.”

“Shut up,” he says, and I poke him in the ribs, and he rolls over onto his side, and we’re really close and I can feel an imminent kiss in the air that I would not be able to stop so I sit up. The bed springs shudder.

He sighs dejectedly and rolls onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling.

~*~

A new development. Miranda has joined in on the play, and as a near-main part. Oh joy, won’t everyone be pleased that the darling of our school is in our play. Oh god, I don’t want the teachers taking it seriously! And oh joy, another chance to force Elliot to spend time with her! Won’t he be _pleased_!

The school hall is strung with crepe streamers and decorations, left over from the Year 9 social last night. A paper giraffe hangs over my head, in the centre of the stage, its head attached to the highest beam. How is anyone going to notice me, grey and navy against that long line of yellow? The highest point of my pompadour just grazes its hooves.

Scattered where the assembly chairs usually sit, the rest of the actors, singers, prop-bearers and makers are chatting to each other and fiddling with pieces of sparkly material.

I look over at Elliot, cradled by the side of the stage and the back wall, surrounded by a computer and a black line of switches and buttons. He grins up at me, and I jump onto the balls of my feet.

“Elliot, why don’t you help Miranda practice her lines?” I call over to him. Now he’s glaring at me.

“Leave Elliot to do what he’s doing,” Miranda says. Yes, yes, kind _bitch_. “I’ll get Simon to help me. He’s the one who’s going to be in the scene with me.” She gives me a knowing smile, like she’s cottoned on, but I don’t think she understands what’s really happening.

“Alright,” I concede, and call Elaine to me.

When we start practicing one of our scenes, everyone stops what they’re doing and watches us, anyway. Their attention is like an injection of adrenaline right in my spine. Even Mr Damask stops helping the little kids paint their costumes and stares at us.

I'm vaguely aware of Elliot writing things down and playing with his buttons, off to my left. I hope his interest is more than professional. Oh - no I don't! And that heat in my cheeks is just excitement!

When we’re finished for the night and helping the kids put away their craft and painting gear, I get caught up in a conversation with a little girl about which colour is better – pink or orange.

"Pink does work better with more skin tones..." I trail off, watching Elliot wind a cord around his shoulder and elbow. "Excuse me," I say, and scuttle over to him.

He puts the cord in a box and smiles at me. Before he can say anything, I say, "Come on!" and drag him by the wrist towards Miranda. By the time he starts struggling backwards, we've already descended upon her.

“Hey, Miranda.” I sidle into the path of her broom, where a scrap of bright blue material sticks to my shoe. “Fun practice, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was. I-“ she starts, but I cut her off.

“Elliot thought you were great.” He looks like he’s going to hit me. “He really likes you.” He _does_ hit me, and I whimper, clutching my shoulder.

“It’s alright, Elliot!” Miranda soothes, stepping between us. “It’s really sweet. You’re so nice. I don’t feel exactly the same way, but-“

“I don’t like you. Andrew made it up.” Elliot's anger has flared his eyes wide open.

“It’s alright! You don’t have to feel embarrassed!” She puts her hands up in a placating gesture.

“ _I don’t like you!_ I think you’re condescending!” he rages. “The only thing I’m embarrassed about is that I ever thought Andrew was worth more than the scum on my shoes!”

The Earth shakes under his stomping feet as he leaves the hall.

Miranda stares at me, jaw and shoulders limp. “W-What?”

“Ah, you know me.” I shrug. “Most likely mentally deficient!”

I’d race off after Elliot, but I’d better help clean up after _my_ – I mean – _the school’s_ play practice, and he probably would kill me, anyway.

“What the hell did you do?” Elaine runs up to me, arms full of scrap material.

“I angered the sleeping beast.” I laugh, exhilarated and slightly dizzy, like when I threatened to put Dad’s work shoes in the blender.

“No, tell me!” She jumps up and down, raining bits of material around her feet.

“Maybe later!” I say, ignoring her pout.

I race through the rest of the cleaning as though my heels are being nipped at by puppies, then run home to make sure I look beautiful. This involves getting changed into my blue trousers with globs of lighter blue creeping up the ankles, and spraying some more hairspray into my hair.

Dad raises his eyebrows as I race past him to the door. “Do you like a girl?”

I laugh wildly.

I’m at Elliot’s house and knocking on his bedroom door within seconds. No sound, even when I press my ear against the door. I try the handle; though it turns, the door won’t budge like usual. Under the full force of my weight, the wood groans, but doesn't move.

I lean against the door, knocking every so often. My knuckles scrape against the white paint. Eventually, I hear a scraping noise in response.

“Come on, Elliot,” I coo into where the door and the frame meet. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you aren’t. _Go away_.” That was obviously not enough time for him to cool down. Actually, he sounds even angrier, like it’s grown and festered in that room with him.

“Please let me in! I’ll make it up to you, I promise!” I whinge.

He doesn’t answer.

“Come on, it’s not that bad, is it?”

“I don’t want to _know_ you.”

“Now, that’s mean. Please please please please let me in!”

Pause. “Alright,” he says, his tone still boiling.

He opens the door and I peek my head in, only to have it belted by a bag that – _shit_ – did that have rocks in it?

“Owww!” I cradle my head and lean against the door, which he tries to shut again, his jaw locked and eyes wide. I stick my arm through, but that doesn’t stop him – he just closes the door on it until I swear.

“Go away!” he says again.

“No!” I heave all of my weight against the door and try to squeeze through the gap my arm is creating.

He gets tired before I do, and relents suddenly, causing me to stumble through the door on my momentum. I careen into him, clamp his head between my hands and kiss him forcefully.

It’s not really a proper kiss; it’s just me trying to stay latched onto him while he tries to pry my hands off his face and get his lips away from mine. For some reason, his face feels as cold as his actions. He knees me in the side of my leg, probably aiming for and missing my crotch, but it does the job and I break off, stumbling back.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he spits out, furious.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I say, panting in time to him.

“Now?! When I want to kill you?!” he says, backing away, into the alcove of his corner desk.

“Yeah,” I nod vehemently.

“Why do you want to kiss me _now_?”

“I always want to kiss you…”

“But I’m not allowed to want to kiss you? Would you rather an unwilling partner?”

I gape at him. “No! That’s creepy!”

“You’re _being_ creepy!”

Well. No one likes to hear that.

“I’m sorry. I like you,” I change tack. “May I please have that kiss now?”

He stares at my big blue eyes, fluttering innocently, and my boyish smile, and he’s twisting his hands together. “The offer might be revoked.”

“Just one kiss,” I say, sliding closer to him. “And then you can beat me up until I’m a bloody mess, if you like.”

“Okay,” he says, going paler and staring at the ground.

My heart thunders against my chest and I can feel my neck pang and tighten with tension. And then he’s kissing me, and oh, _that’s_ what a reciprocated kiss feels like. All of my blood seems to go to my head and makes it feel like it’s heavier and lighter at the same time. I reach out and grab his face again, his cheeks somehow still feeling cold, and try to pull it closer to mine, even though that’s impossible. He snags his hands in my hair, but I don’t care if he messes it up.

I open my mouth against his and he does the same, deepening the kiss. I definitely, definitely want to think of this as my first. Those others were just a bumping of lips together, dry and ridiculous. This…this…oh God, I think I’m going to die and I’m not at all upset about that.

When we finally break apart, I ask, soft and low, “Do you forgive me?”

“Not sure,” he says softly. “I definitely want that to happen again, but…you’re still a jerk.”

He bites my cheek and I lean down and head-butt his shoulder. He pulls my hair half-heartedly.

Footsteps clatter down the hall and he jumps, instantly untangling himself from me and stepping away, the palest I’ve seen him. After checking himself in the mirror to make sure he doesn’t look like he’s just had a snog, he pops his head out the door.

Turning back, he mouths, “Rebecca.”

“She’s cool,” I whisper, tugging his shirt to pull him back to me.

But he shakes his head. “She can’t know.”

“Oh, my mysterious darling, you are full of secrets,” I murmur, latching my arms around him and kissing his cheek.

He leans against the door, closing it. “She definitely can’t know. No one can,” he says quietly, leaning into me slightly.

“But it’s a perfect opportunity to annoy people,” I whine.

“It wouldn’t just annoy them. They’d go berserk. Not just my parents. Think for a second. What would yours do if they found out?”

“You want me to think about consequences at a time like this?” I nuzzle against his neck, which arches up to me, despite his scolding tone.

“This is the exact right time to think of consequences. Think about it. What would they do?”

“I don’t know.” I slump my head against his shoulder. “Probably send me to boarding school to straighten me out, in more ways than one.”

“And do you want that?” he says, lifting my head up and looking me right in the eyes, which doesn’t happen…ever…

“No…” I mumble. “That would be heinous. Damn parents.”

His tense shoulders relax and he sighs in relief, clearly happy about this decimation of my joy. He kisses the top of my head and hugs me tight, awkward but affectionate, and I straighten up, becoming taller than him again.

“Who can I tell?” I ask.

“No one.”

I pout, but his expression remains stern.

“Still…” I whisper. “I’m completely and utterly happy about this.”

“Me too,” he whispers, lips inching ever closer to mine. I lurch forwards and close the distance, receiving another one of those lovely reciprocated kisses, where his lips actually move and there’s saliva and everything.

When we pull apart, he laughs nervously and we make our way over to his bed sideways, knees knocking together, still holding each other. We sit, and he holds my head like a delicate glass bowl as he brings it closer to his, fingertips inserted in between the coils of my hair in the most beautiful, light touch. No…not the most beautiful; that title must go to his kiss, which is not light, especially when I sink into it and push against him until he’s lying down. Even when my shoulder hits the mattress, I feel like I’m still sinking, like the duvet under us will envelop me. My hand wanders across his chest, then downwards, clutching at the material of his school-shirt as though that will make the flesh underneath more apparent. Just past the bellybutton, I feel his stomach tense, his lips purse a little against mine, and he swipes my straying hand away like the spider it is. I probably wasn’t ready to go further than that, anyway…

We kiss in our dreamy bubble with the door closed for I have no idea how long and don’t really care, and I almost feel calm, next to his ever-sleepier breathing.

“Andrew, you’re still here, right?” I hear Rebecca’s voice calling from outside the door, waking us up from our awake-dream-land.

“Yes,” I call out reluctantly.

“Your mum’s looking for you. You should probably go home and have dinner.”

“Neugh!” I groan and let myself become a dead weight. Elliot tenses and pushes at my shoulder until I sit up, while I give him a wounded look.

“You want to stay a little longer and get in trouble?” he asks, and I nod. “You say that now...”

He shunts me up and off his bed, kissing me one more time before guiding me by the shoulders out of his room and back to all those other damn people in my life.


	6. Chapter 6

The next day, I bound over to his house at seven thirty to give him the eye while he eats his breakfast. We have a quick snog before he decides we have to go off to that accursed school thing, which should be renamed ‘interrupter of Andrew’s sex life that doesn’t actually involve sex yet but still’.

He follows me into form room, then winds his way through rows of desks to where Carmen is sitting, a pile of books shielding her torso from view. She gives us a sharp frown, as though she knows we were doing something her God would find icky.

“You two are spending a lot of time together,” she says, frown turning into a pout.

“Yeah,” Elliot says quickly, going pale. “We’re good friends, now.”

She presses her lips together, and I can’t tell whether she’ll cry or storm off in a rage, then lets in a deep breath. “Are we still friends?”

“Of course,” Elliot says, almost jumping. His shoulders relax under the rigid cut of his blazer. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“She doesn’t think she can be friends with someone who’s friends with me,” I say to Elliot behind my hand, but so that she can hear.

“I didn’t say that.” Her hands ball into fists.

“You thought it, though, didn’t you?” I grin at the indignation in her face. “I know, I know, I’m _awful_ and I'm poisoning your air by being around you.”

“ _I didn’t say that!_ ” Her voice rises to a near-hysterical notch. “But, yeah, it’s true!”

“Be nice to each other,” Elliot’s voice cuts through the argument.

We both look down at the floor like naughty children, and I half expect one of us to say that the other started it. Who did start it? Probably her.

I peek up at him and the little frown he's directing at me. It looks extra pink against the pallor of his skin, or maybe I kissed him too hard and popped a few blood vessels in his lips. He smirks at me and the inside of my cheek tingles.

If I kiss him...Carmen will freak out... Yes, I should kiss him.

He steps away from me and circles around Carmen to sit next to her, scraping his chair across the carpet and my heart. Woe betide her! By the time I’ve taken his other side, Mrs Flenworthy is starting the roll call.

He leans my way and whispers, “How dare you make me look this popular,” a smile flashing across his lips.

“Oh my God, I wanna kiss you,” I whisper back. The smile disappears and his eyes widen to shoujo manga proportions. Oh yes, my darling, I can tell it _thrilled_ you.

I wind my foot around his desk leg and brush it against his, black leather shoe against grey ankle sock. He closes his eyes, takes a couple of deep breaths, and stamps his foot down on mine.

“Ow!” I yelp.

Mrs Flenworthy's laser eyes beam down on us, and she asks, words clipped with disdain, “What is your problem, Andrew?”

The rest of the class turn in their seats to look at us, and Elliot hunches forwards, almost face to face with the gnarled surface of his desk.

“Elliot stepped on my foot!” I whine, my own posture rising me above all of our classmates.

“Because he kicked me!” he says, glancing up.

“Liar!” I whisper.

“Yeah, you did worse,” he mutters.

“Settle down and pay attention.” Mrs Flenworthy butts in. She slaps the roll book against her palm and grips it tight. “I’d have expected much better from you, Elliot.”

Elliot glares back down at his desk, and she goes back to checking the roll. I get distracted by the gold crescents of light in Elliot's hair, lit up by the white bars of fluorescent lights overhead. When Mrs Flenworthy calls my name, I jump, but she's only checking me off the roll.

Two million years later, we’re allowed to go off to our first classes, and I have to watch Elliot follow Carmen down the hall. Why does _she_ get him for first period?

I don't get to see them again until afternoon form room, when Mrs Flenworthy, once again, commences her precious roll call.

I lean my elbow onto his desk and ask, “Do you believe all that crap she,” I glare past him towards Carmen, “spews about hell and stuff?”

Her bottom jaw juts forward as she blasts hot air out her nose.

“I’m agnostic,” he says, and she bites her lip, clearly unhappy with this fact.

“Are you just saying that so you only half disappoint both of us?” I ask.

“You don’t have to worry about him!” she says, batting at his arm. “You can tell me.”

“I’m agnostic.” His brow creases adorably. “I’m not just saying that. What do you take me for?”

“Jeez, look, Carmen, you’ve made him angry,” I say, which makes the corner of his mouth twitch up reluctantly.

Carmen makes a weird squealing noise and stands up.

“Bye, _Elliot_ ,” she says, swinging her bag onto her back like she’s about to cast out a fishing line.

We watch her stomp through the grid of wooden desks and out of the classroom, while the crease in his brow deepens. I laugh and squeeze his shoulder, making him jump.

“Will you step on my foot if I ask if we can walk home together?” I ask, and he shakes his head. His lips press together, then bloom into a smile.

I follow him out of the classroom and through the H block, past a row of windows filled with ponytails, and fellow students streaming out of grey doors. Lillian Fernsby's backpack whacks into my arm as she runs for the school gates, navy bars thrown open onto the freedom of the street.

As we follow her, walking towards the intersection ahead and the row of cars cramming themselves into each other, I stare at the half a metre of space between us. The empty air gusts past us and stings me through my shirt.

“Can I hold your hand?” I ask.

“I don’t think we should…” His shoulders tense up and he looks at me sideways.

“But you’d like to?”

“…Yeah…” he says reluctantly.

I reluctantly find that cute.

“Can’t we just do what we want?” I ask.

“You know we can’t…” he sighs. “Try to think of the consequences, again.”

“Fine,” I roll my eyes. I want some fun. Being apparently good is boring. “Bet you can’t catch me.” I lope down the footpath at an easy pace, but still fast enough so that he couldn’t catch up.

“I’m not taking that bet,” he calls out, without speeding up.

I laugh over my shoulder, then run my fastest, just to show off. The trees rustle their leaves overhead in applause, while my soles thud against the concrete. The wind buffets my face, but doesn't seem to get past my mouth.

Oh crap. That breathing thing. Got hard.

I crouch down, resting my hands on my knees and trying to take slow, shallow breaths. _Now_ I hear his footsteps quicken.

“That’s not fair when I can’t defend my lead!” I puff out.

“Where’s your inhaler?” he asks, stopping next to me and stooping down to my level.

“Um…”

“You idiot!” He stamps his foot and growls, before running off in the direction of our houses. The heels of his rubber soles have worn down into inward slants, making his knees crane towards each other.

I puff along behind him, slowly, head spinning faster than usual and not making sense. Eventually, he runs past Mum's hydrangeas and into my house, then back out to meet me again, the green and purple plants shuddering in his wake. He shoves the inhaler into my mouth and I suck up its healing goodness.

“Please remember it!” He grips my shoulders, fingers denting the cotton of my shirt.

~*~

I remember it next time, but am in such a panic that I forget about it and he has to grab it out of my bag.

“Do you have another one of these?” he asks, passing the inhaler from one hand to the other.

“Yeah, somewhere in my room.” I wave my hand at the ice blue sky.

“Then…how about you find it…and I keep this one? For next time?” He holds it between us, unsure.

“Okay.” I grin, nodding. “You can be my inhaler boy. It can be our way of publicly kissing.”

“Somehow, it’s not quite the same…” He shakes his head.

“What else do we have? Nothing! No public sign of affection but you saving me from lack of air.” I ruffle his hair a bit, and his eyes dart left and right, like a villain in a cartoon.

“You’re right,” he says, staring towards our houses, two peaks piercing a cloud. “Let’s go home.” Is that your way of saying, _I want to kiss you_?

~*~

The next day, I don't get to walk home with him at all! Apparently, he's not needed for this play practice. What if I have an asthma attack? Then he'll be needed. But he'll be at home, doing homework or some crap.

"Focus!" Elaine snaps her fingers in front of my face, and my mind's transported from Elliot's bedroom to the music rehearsal room, just big enough for the two of us. I launch myself off the splintery brown piano I've been leaning on, and salute her.

The other actors are in similar rooms, practicing their separate scenes, while the choir's being conducted by Mrs Levey in her classroom. I've heard her sing in assembly, and my heart doth quake for the quality of our play.

Elaine starts her lines again, and I instantly feel better, but only for a moment, because her words and posture transform me into my own character, and Andrew's thoughts become secondary. That winter sunlight isn't trickling through the window - it's twinkling down from the ocean surface and glinting off sand and shells and Elaine's tail. Well, _of course_ she's the mermaid - I'm not allowed, and I wanted to be the crab, anyway.

The door creaks open and Mr Kentle pops his head in. I frown at him. Thanks for reminding me that's a door and not a patch of coral.

"Let me have a listen," he says, raised eyebrows almost disappearing into his forehead wrinkles.

"Okay!" I say. An audience is an audience!

Elaine starts her lines again, a tremor snagging at her voice, while my own voice booms out with newfound power. I steal a glance at Mr Kentle, sitting on the piano stool with his chin in his hand and his eyebrows drawing down into the middle. A small chuckle leaves his lips and loosens his face, and that victory is enough to send me into what Dad would term 'slapstick', flinging my limbs at every corner of the room. Elaine starts giggling. Mr Kentle is frowning again.

~*~

I open Elliot's door and peep my head in, and get greeted by a, “I’ll be with you in a second,” that could’ve been said by a robot.

He’s still in his navy school shirt and grey trousers, hunched over his computer and hemmed in by stacks of books, running around some countryside as a hot zombie guy. I’m impressed. And a little jealous. But I’m way higher definition. Pixel-wise, anyway…

“Lelliot! It’s me!” I sing, bounding into the room.

He spins around on his chair (admirable, since it isn’t a spinny chair) to face me with a smile that makes me feel light-headed.

“Oh, I’m here,” he says, then turns back to his computer, presses a few buttons, and the game is gone.

Okay, now I’m definitely not jealous.

I scuttle up to him, lean down, and give him three rapid kisses across his mouth. He laughs and takes my head in his hand to give me a slow kiss back.

“Guess what?” He squeezes my head, then releases it.

“What?” I lean against his corner desk.

He rummages in his pocket and pulls out a plastic card, brandishing it at me. I take it and study its green surface, displaying a picture of him, minus any expression.

“Holy crap, you got your full licence?!” I jump up and down, clutching the card so tightly it bends, and he grabs it off me.

“Yeah, I had the test yesterday,” he says.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve wished you luck!”

“I actually didn’t think I’d pass. Mum never let me practice with the cars, so I only had the lessons to go on.” He glares up at an invisible assailant over his head.

“That means you’re extra amazing!” I lunge at him and wrap my arms around his head. “Jeez, I don’t even have my learners.”

“You should get it. It’s really easy,” he says, prodding my side, then wrapping his arms around my waist.

“No way! Dad once tried to give me a lesson and ended up yelling that I’m not fit for _any_ responsibility,” I say, and he makes a noise somewhere between a choke and a laugh. “Besides, now I have you to drive me around, what’s the point?”

“Well. I don’t own a car and I’m not allowed to use my parents’ cars, so…”

“We can steal my mum’s or dad’s car! And drive it out to one of those make out points they have in the movies…”

“One, I don’t think those exist, and two, _no way_.” He pulls his head free of my embrace.

“Fine,” I sigh, trudging over to his bed. “What about here?”

“Fine,” he imitates me, hefting himself out of his desk chair.

We sit down on his blue mattress and glue our faces to each other. I glimpse a blur of white wall as my eyelids flutter, and the air starts to feel cool against my flushed face. While he’s attacking my neck, I blurt out, “And to think, you almost passed me up for Miranda.”

He jerks his head back, grabs my face roughly in both hands, and stares fury from his eyes into mine. Oohh, he never looks me in the eye! But…scary! Oops.

“Take that as evidence that my mouth should be occupied at all times!” I squeak.

His face softens, and I can tell he’s trying valiantly not to laugh. “Now I _really_ think your mouth needs a zip.”

“No, kisses!” I whine, lunging for his face and covering his lips with mine before he can say any more horrid zip-related things. He laughs into my mouth before kissing me back, laying down and pulling me on top of him. His arms encircle my shoulders and back, and our chests rub together, and our crotches are…are…very close, but when I try to slide my hand up his shirt, he clamps his hand over mine and pulls it back to the crinkly material covering his shoulder, and slides his tongue into my mouth so I can’t whine about it. Okay, okay, concentrate on his tongue, Andrew. Stroking the roof of my mouth, sending hot tingling straight down my body and to…to…ngh.

~*~

As we pass the glass cabinet in the living room, on the way to my bedroom and its oh-so-important closeable door, I notice some flat cardboard packets on the bottom shelf, under the wedding china only an old lady could have bought. I kneel down to take a look.

“Cool! Records!” I say. “But probably not anything dece-“ I choke on that last word as my eyes recognise a cover.

I shoot upright and brandish the record at Elliot. “What the hell is this?” I demand.

He peers at the cover and reads, “ _So_ by Peter Gabriel?”

“Yes, I know that, but why is it here?” I wave the record around for emphasis.

“Oh!” His mouth hooks up at the corner. “You like a singer your parents also like?”

I nod mournfully. “God, this is _horrid_!”

“Has it decreased in decency?” he asks, with a hint of both mocking and understanding.

I consider the record. It does seem to have betrayed me. But I might forgive it for letting itself be played by the enemy. “Maybe not.”

He smiles and gives me a pat on the shoulder.

“Why didn’t they tell me? Why don’t they talk about music with me?” My voice rises into whine-pitch.

“Maybe they don’t want to encourage you,” he says. “They may like listening to music, but their son is going to be a businessman.”

“Oh, Elliot, you are so wise,” I say, burrowing my face in the top of his head, his hair-fronds tickling my eyes and nose. “And you smell like nice shampoo.”

I detach myself from him and storm off to the kitchen, record clutched in my furious little hand. Mum is making dinner, chopping carrots and onions and beans into neat, perfect sizes and piling them in neat, perfect piles, and Dad is leaning against the bench, reading the newspaper. I want to scrunch up the newspaper and mess up the piles of vegetables.

“What is the meaning of this?” I say like a king who’s caught his royal subjects washing his tapestries in mud.

Mum cuts her vegetables faster and with more precision, and Dad looks up and shrugs. “It’s a record.”

“Don’t play innocent! You know I like Peter Gabriel!” I shake the record in his direction.

“Andrew,” Dad says, reaching out and grabbing the record off me. “Don’t be rough – you’ll break it.”

“Break it like you’ve attempted to break my soul?!” I stamp my foot a couple of times.

“Now now, dear, don’t have a tantrum.” Mum discards her cooking and turns around to cuddle me.

“I’m not having a tantrum!” I enjoy her cuddle for a moment before slipping out of it. “I get no support from you people!” I yell, pointing from one to the other and making a dramatic exit from the room that is ruined by almost crashing into Elliot, leaning against the door frame.

We leave the room together. When we’re out of sight, he puts an arm around me and says, “You’re hilarious.”

“Thank you,” I say, pouting. “I’m not thanking them in my CD booklet.”

~*~

“She’s quite…different at school, isn’t she?” I observe, nodding towards Rebecca and her group of friends walking a little way ahead of us.

“Yes. Different.” Elliot grimaces their way and looks quickly down at his feet.

“And in this case, different means the same,” I say, making him laugh.

Because she _is_ the same as all of them, here. They manage to make their uniforms look even more uniform, with their skirts rolled up and their socks pulled halfway to their knees, which makes some of them look like they’ve got big football socks on, and others look like they have canckles.

But it’s not just that. Her attitude and the way she holds herself changes. She titters away with them, laughing at every one of their jokes, her smile seemingly nailed to her face and painted with lip gloss. She seems confident and happier, though. Maybe.

“It doesn’t seem like her at all,” I say.

“It is her,” Elliot says. “Just…a different side of her, I guess.”

“I prefer home-Rebecca,” I say.

“Me too.” He gazes at the grey tiles on the floor, shiny with varnish, looking like square ice puddles. I squeeze his arm in lieu of a big hug.

“Oi,” he says, going pale and half-smiling, half-frowning.

“What? I was discreet. I thought you’d be pleased. Would you like me to hug you instead?” I raise my arms threateningly.

“No – okay – you’re very considerate. Thank you,” he says quickly, backing away from me and bumping into Jake Towman, whose blazer barely fits over his arms. Elliot looks over his hunched shoulder, then wheels around and steps back into me. “Sorry. Accident,” he says, holding up his hands.

Jake stiffens and frowns, but just nods and continues to his locker.

I lean into Elliot's curved back and put my hands on his shoulders. He almost leaps away, then turns and gives me an apologetic smile.

"I'm going to get my books for next class,” he says with plenty of forced dignity, and trudges off down the hall, leaving me all Elliotless.

I turn and see Rebecca watching while she half-listens to her friends, then she makes a placating gesture as she steps away and towards me. Every part of her seems to deflate a little, like helium is escaping out of her, and her big fake smile starts to turn into her normal subdued one.

“I just realised something,” she says, still a bit bright-eyed and enthusiastic.

“What?” I blink down at her, wondering why she’s bothering to increase her cool-factor by talking to me where everyone can see.

“Elliot looks way happier at school, lately." The gleam in her eyes looks natural, now. "You’ve been sitting with him, right? So I know why he’s happier.”

Dread creeps down my back and plays a jarring tune along the bones of my spine. Elliot’s going to kill me! “You do? Uh, want to share your theory with me?”

“It’s because you talk to him the whole time,” she says. “So he’s not left alone to dwell on anything.”

Relief, and, yes, I’ll admit, disappointment, flood down and drown the dread monster.

“I never thought about it like that. Maybe you’re right,” I say, grinning. “That makes me even more amazing than I thought.”

She laughs and shakes her head, and says, “Well, thank you for being that amazing,” looking down at her shoes. When she looks up, she’s recovered her school-face and is showing all her teeth in her smile, again. “Well, see ya!” She darts off to catch up with her friends.

Weird. Oh, but but YAY! I make him happier! I’m important in his life!

I skip my way down B-block, slapping some burly guy I don’t care to identify on the back as I go, and running flat-stick the rest of the way.

~*~

“What?” I ask, giggling at Elliot, because he has this adorable, cheeky smile on his face and I suspect he might be doing that inward-laughing thing.

“Nothing.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, before sitting down at the bench Elaine and I traditionally commandeer at lunchtimes.

He digs his hand into his bag and pulls out his lunchbox, staring at it instead of me, but he’s still smiling that smile, hiding his secret joke from me. It better be because it’s about me, otherwise he’s just mean.

“Whaaat?” I whine, pinching his arm and making his shoulders jolt up slightly.

He turns his twinkling eyes to me and says, “I like your hair. You look extra cute today.”

Woah.

I’m tumbling about on waves of joy and they’re making me a little seasick but I don’t care! I don’t even care that his smile is now hiding behind awkward embarrassment while he busies himself picking the sticker off his apple. Because if I didn’t like _that_ expression, I would have a hard time looking at his face ninety per cent of the time.

“Thank you!” I say, lightly touching my fringe, which is perfectly curved across my forehead. “The amount of compliments I get on my hair is disproportionate to the time spent on it, so yours is greatly appreciated!”

“I think you appreciate the complaints, too,” he says, the cheeky smile edging the awkward grimace off his face.

“I do!” I giggle like I've had a bit too much cordial, and kinda feel like it, too.

His eyes crinkle, then he brings his apple sticker up to my face and plants it on my nose, squishing the point down as he does so.

And then he giggles with me, and we’re just staring and giggling and probably looking super cute, until he looks to the side and…now he doesn’t just look awkward; his expression has retreated completely into itself, and his smile has lost its sparkliness.

“Hi,” he says, and I follow his gaze, to see Elaine staring at us with her lips pressed together and her eyes beaming, looking like she’s going to start giggling with us. Not that we’re giggling anymore. Since when does Elaine’s presence hinder giggling?

“Hi, guys,” she says, then points to my nose. “Good accessory.”

She sits next to me and doesn’t mention it again, until Elliot leaves us for the bathroom, when she says, almost nonchalantly, “Funny how he automatically sits with us, now.”

I grin, _almost_ trying to tone it down.

“It was only a matter of time before he realised my company trumps all others!”

“Good for you, eh?” she says, swaying from side to side.

“Yeah,” I say, not bothering to avoid that fact. “So don’t scare him away, or else!”

“Me? You’re the one who’s overbearing!”

“No way! I’m the one who brought him here, remember?”

“You were probably all overbearing about it, until he relented.”

“Lies! It’s because I’m magical!”

“He’s coming back,” she says, gesturing to him as he rounds the corner of the forest green Year 1 classroom. “Shall we ask him the reason?”

“ _No_!”


	7. Chapter 7

He’s sitting at his desk, leafing through his Maths textbook, while I lie on his bed, staring at the back of his strawberry blond head. Stupid homework. It’s not kissing, therefore I want no part in it.

“How can you concentrate?” I ask, lolling off the side of the bed.

“With difficulty.” Though I can’t see his face, I can hear a smile in his voice. “Don’t _you_ have homework?”

“Probably,” I say, rolling onto my back. “I don’t really pay attention to that part of class."

“Who _can_ hold your attention?”

“Why, you, of course!”

“Okay, then. How about…we can do whatever we want,” oh, just say kiss! “when we’ve _both_ finished our homework.”

“ _No way_.” I sit up. “That’s a terrible idea. I won’t let you force it upon me!”

“Then you can do what you want. By yourself.” He turns back to his homework and I sit up in outrage.

“I know how to get your attention!” I say, and pause for dramatic effect. _He doesn't look at me_. Fine. You get what you deserve. “Elaine’s been asking about us,” I say in a sing-song voice. When he swings around in his chair, pale as ever, I quickly add, “Don’t worry! She knows nothing. Just…she knows I like you – _and no one else does_ – and is wondering how I’ve managed to get you to spend so much time with me, lately. So…yeah…just a heads up! I’m sure it’ll be fine, though. Even if she finds out, she’ll just think it’s adorable! She loves gay stuff.” I stop when I notice the pained look in his eyes.

“So quickly…” he whispers.

“Hey, don’t worry! It’s just her. No one else’ll think we’re anything but friends,” I try to reassure him, but he just sits there, casting nervous glances at the door, like his mum might be out there, listening with a cup pressed to her ear. “Are you alright?” I ask.

He nods slowly, eyes unfocused.

“Really?” I cock my head to the side. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then don’t,” he says flatly, slamming his chair back into the crook of his desk and propping his elbow against the papers strewn over it, chin and cheeks cupped in his hands.

I get up, kneel behind him and wind my arms around his torso. He slouches against my arms, limbs slack, but when I press my cheek to his back, I feel a knot of tension.

“Where are you?” I ask, raking a fingernail down that really ticklish part of his side.

“I’m here,” he says absently.

“No you’re not.” I slide my hand just under his t-shirt, and he doesn’t react, for the first time ever. “Come back.” I slide my hand further up his side. He just stares at two pieces of Lego sitting on the apricot surface of his desk. I nuzzle his neck persistently, then bite it.

“Ah!” he gasps. There we go! His shoulders stiffen and I know he’s no longer impervious to my existence. “Um…”

“What?” I run my hand up to his shoulder and give it a squeeze. Tension presses back against my hand.

He sighs and doesn’t say anything, and my arm slackens and lays inside his t-shirt like it’s lying in a hammock. He turns around to face me, and I keep my hand inside his shirt as he does so, until it’s resting against his chest. His eyes are shimmering like wet leaves, and I kiss his lips to make that frown go away, but I can feel it against my mouth and I know that look is still beneath his closed eyelids.

“Are you _actually_ alright?” I ask.

“Don’t worry about it.” _That’s_ not an answer. “Distract me.”

I slide my hand across his chest, feeling this foreign territory, skin smother and bones deeper than in his more accessible arms. My palm grazes across a nipple and my fingers instantly flex, tendons pulling tight. I touch it again, with two fingertips, and say, “Good distraction?”

He swallows hard and nods, eyes clouding with something else and, thankfully, beginning to overtake that sheen of pain.

“Wait,” he murmurs half-heartedly.

And I can’t help it; I slide the base of my palm up his chest and feel the nipple lose some of its malleability. His hands shoot up to cover his face and he lets out a tiny moan, all embarrassed and adorable. I bite two of his fingers lightly.

“Damn you,” he whispers.

After a moment, his voice comes from behind his hands, “Okay, you’ve distracted me enough.”

His hands come down from his face to reveal completely pale skin and move down to brush my hand out of his shirt. He kisses me hard but briefly, then starts to turn back towards his desk.

“Noo…” I whine, clutching at him as that chest gets pulled away from me and settles back in its wooden, papery nook.

“Do yours, too,” he says in a ‘that’s not a suggestion’ tone, which seems at odds with heavy-lidded, unfocused eyes.

“No way,” I say, folding my arms and sitting cross-legged on the floor until I get bored and hungry and have to go home.

~*~

“Andrew. What are you doing here?” Carmen asks as if I have no right to be within 20 metres of a movie theatre.

“Oh, Carmen, how lovely to see you!” I run up to her and give her a big hug.

She struggles out of my embrace. “Get off! Are you following us?”

Elliot, standing next to her, looks like he wants to smack both of us.

“I’m here with my friends.” I gesture to Elaine, Benjy and Lance, off at the ticket counter, where the whiff of popcorn is coming from. “Why don’t we join groups?”

“Yes!” Elliot says, then looks sheepishly at Carmen’s indignant face. “And if you two don’t behave with each other, I’m leaving.”

“Yes, Mummy,” I look down at my shoes and scuff them on the goopy carpet.

“Fine,” Carmen pouts and makes her way to the ticket counter, with the two of us trailing behind.

“Nice to see you,” he says softly to me, tipping his head towards mine. “It’s almost like you _were_ following me.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I heard you telling Rebecca you’d be at the movies, so…” I spread my arms as if to say ‘here I am, out of your dreams.’

“I don’t know if I should feel creeped out, but I’m just happy you’re here,” he says.

I purse my lips at him in an air-kiss. His mouth curves and writhes between a smile and a grimace, as his eyes tell me off. So paranoid! No one saw! Probably.

We go up and order our tickets, and Elaine comments to me quietly, “You look happy.”

“Of course!” I say, looking over at Elliot.

“And so does he,” she gives me a meaningful look. “Perhaps all this time you’re spending with him is making him _like_ you.” She says ‘like’ with the importance that means kissing as well as movies.

No one will ever fully imagine how difficult it is for me to keep my mouth shut, at this point. The words, ‘Well, much of that time we’re spending together is taken up with snogging and I even got my hand up his shirt, so yeah, he probably does _like_ me,’ are crowding at my lips, pressing at them like soldiers trying to breach the gates of a very weak fortress.

She’s squinting at me. Oh crap – she can see I want to say something. She’s going to find out. What’s the point in hiding it from her?

“Let’s go into the theatre,” Elliot says, unwittingly saving himself from my big mouth.

“Wait, where’s your other two friends?” Carmen asks.

We look around; Benjamin and Lance aren’t here. Elaine and I grin at each other and say, “They’re on their honeymoon,” in unison – the standard answer for that question.

Carmen goes bright red, her eyes flaring. “What are you talking about?”

“Ooh! I bet they’re doing it in the bathroom!” Elaine says, clapping her hands.

Carmen’s voice comes out all strangled and nonsensical, and Elliot goes pale and gives me a questioning look.

“Yes! They so are!” I say, laughing. “You know, they did look shifty just before. Probably just _waiting_ ‘till they could steal away from us and have a moment of wild passion!”

“ _Don’t spread that_ ,” Benjamin’s enraged voice comes from behind me.

“Don’t spread that _lie_ ,” Lance sounds far calmer but still a bit ticked off. The pink-tinged fluorescent lights are glinting off their hair and skin, giving them a special glow.

Elaine cackles. “They came out of the bathroom!” she says when the laughter gives her room to.

“We weren’t doing…that!” Benjy splutters, rounding on her.

“Yeah, Elaine,” I say with mock-seriousness. “Can’t two guys take a piss next to each other without being gay?”

Elaine splutters into more giggles while Benjy storms off angrily to the theatre, taking Lance with him (who’s telling him to calm down). Carmen looks like she’s entirely had enough of this conversation.

“They’re practically married,” I explain to her and Elliot. He just nods slowly, but I can see he’s trying not to laugh.

We follow the others into the theatre, where it smells like someone ate a few too many Maltesers and the cleaning staff didn’t do a thorough job of cleaning up the ensuing messy rejection of the chocolates. My nose twitches, but no one else reacts. The theatre in town is nicer…why aren’t we there? Oh yeah, I pulled a stalker move and followed my boyfriend here.

I sit next to Elliot and Elaine – my two favourite people on either side of me, but what good is that when I’m supposed to be keeping Elliot a secret? I really really really want to tell her!

“Hey, Elaine,” I whisper to her.

“Shhh,” she says, putting a finger to her lips and giving me the ‘shut up, you idiot, I’m watching the movie’ look.

This is what I don’t like about watching movies at the theatre. People tell me to shut up even more than usual, and their attention is completely taken up by that big bright screen while I’m ignored in the dark. How awesome would it be to be on that screen? I can’t think of anything better. No – wait – a live performance. Then people would be watching the real me instead of a film version.

I turn to Elliot instead, but Carmen is right there next to him, all imposing on the background of my vision, and I know he’d never ever want her to find out.

“Oh no! Watch out!” she squeaks at the screen, and I look up to see a lady in danger of being eaten by a giant centipede.

“Don’t go there – there’s another one right behind you!” I call out.

I get a kick on either side.

~*~

When that tumult of suspense and gore is over and we leave the theatre, everyone else is grumbling and throwing us evil glances, while my friends all look embarrassed to be part of my entourage.

“That was _so scary_!” Carmen gasps. “I thought _more_ were going to die! Way too much violence!” I half expect her to say something like ‘what are movies coming to?! The world today!’ and throw some kids out of her front-yard.

“I was so scared, I almost puked!” I say. “That, and that smell!”

“You smelt that, too?” she asks. “Why don’t they clean that place more often?”

“ _I_ wasn’t scared,” Benjy interjects.

“That’s right,” I grin. “Real men don’t get scared.”

Elaine and I snicker and he just gives us the evils.

As we leave the theatre, squinting at the low sun beaming between two apartment buildings, Carmen and I continue to talk about every frightening part of the movie. Her lips turn downwards, but excitement sparkles out of her eyes. Elliot grins at me, then turns to Elaine. What's she saying to him? Oh god, she'd better not be prying.

~*~

We go to McDonalds for lunch, where Elliot just sits against the wall, picking at a packet of chips and looking miserable, so I go and buy him a hamburger. He takes small, quick bites, eyes batting back and forth from the glass entrance doors to the bathroom doors. No one else seems to think anything of it. Why would they? They don’t know his family.

“What if they accidentally tell my parents?” he whispers to me.

“Do you ever even take your friends to your house?” I ask. I bet none of his friends know a thing about his parents.

“Well, no…”

“So cool yer boots and eat the fucking burger!” I say not unkindly.

“You don’t have to swear at me,” he says sullenly, taking a bite, eyes fixed on the plastic table.

I giggle and go to kiss him because he’s just so cute and I want him to know I didn’t mean it that way. He sees my approaching lips, and his face flickers with delight, before dimming into something like anger, his arm shooting out to elbow me away from him.

We both look over at the others. Carmen is slapping the table and talking to Benjy and Lance, who're listening with wide eyes. Elaine's eyes have narrowed in on us, and a small smile is on her lips. I look back at Elliot, and _that_ expression is _definitely_ anger. Whoops.

Well. He can’t tell me off _now_. Then everyone else will know, too.

Elliot hunches over his meal like an angry hawk, while Elaine watches us like one. Carmen's sentence trails off and she blinks from Elliot, to me, to Elaine, then stares at her golden chips. Benjy and Lance follow her gaze, then turn to each other and shrug. Then Carmen lifts her head, her eyes wide and lips pursed.

“You know what I saw the other day?” she says. “A dog dressed in a plaid blazer.”

I burst into chortles while Elaine coos.

“It was mortifying!” she says. “The dog looked really mad.”

“I know how it feels,” I say. “Forced to wear a blazer every day.”

“Not every day,” she says, prodding the silver epaulettes on my coat.

I grin, and Elaine says, "They're so cool."

“Thank you.” I take a little bow and turn to Elliot, hoping he likes them, too.

His shoulder is facing me, though it's not quite so hunched as before, while he talks to Benjy. Probably about how best to channel their excess of anger. Lance interjects, making the other two pause for a moment.

Elaine seems to be staring right at that barrier of condemnation between Elliot and I, almost making it solidify into something physical. Oh well. She might be thinking about something completely different. You never know…

Carmen looks at her watch. “I’d better go.”

“Feeding baby ducks?” I ask.

“I wish!” she says, getting up and cleaning up her tray, plus everyone else’s.

This starts the inevitable avalanche, and soon everyone else is leaving, including Elliot, who doesn’t offer to take the bus home with me, instead throwing me a frown and a short goodbye. Elaine and I are left alone together. Damn, I bet she was planning it.

She’s just staring at me with those big hazel eyes of hers and I have to look at a kid begging his staunch mum for chips while she orders one of those stupid fruit bags, to make myself feel better. I can still see her eyes, though, tingling on my retinas.

“So,” she eventually says.

“How ‘bout those giant slugs,” I say with a confidence that probably doesn’t fool her.

“Yeah… How ‘bout you and Elliot,” she changes the subject so deftly. Drat!

“Yeah!” I say, laughing. “Isn’t it great how he’s…being more sociable?”

She nods. “Especially with you. Actually, just with you and sometimes with your friends.” She pauses, and the silence coming out of her mouth is worse than the words. “I saw you try to kiss him!” she blurts out. “ _Why didn’t you tell me?_ ”

I choke. Then wail. “He wouldn’t let me!” I throw my head onto the table and immediately regret it because it’s all greasy.

“Why not?” she demands.

“Our parents are mean idiots and he wants no one to know so they will never know and yes I know it’s stupid because you would never tell them but he _made me_.”

“It’s okay,” she pats my shoulder, her frown now one of sympathy. "I promise not to let him know that I know.”

“More secrets,” I lament. “How _awful_! This is so _stupid_!”

“But I understand why, now I think about it. His parents sound pretty terrible. Why don’t we just respect his wishes, to make him feel better. Then, when you’re older, you can do what you want and not worry about who knows.”

“ _God_. That’s ages away!” I wail.

“Only, like, a year and a half, if you leave home after high school…”

“ _Ages_.” I put my head down again, this time on top of my arms.

“There there.” She rubs my shoulder. “It’ll be alright. Jeez, you guys have annoying parents.”

“But not in a good way, like I am,” I say, peeping my eyes up over my arms.

“Good way?” she laughs. “There’s a good way to be annoying?”

I nod. “Yes, and I’m an exact example of that!”

She giggles, then pauses and stares off into space for a moment. I’m about to break the silence when she gives out a little squeal.

“It’s so _adorable_!”

“What?” I laugh.

“You two! So cute! And so… _yay_! It actually happened it actually happened!” She beats her palms against the table, an excited gleam in her eyes.

“I _know_! I never thought it would and then when it looked like it was going to I didn’t want it but actually I did because it’s wonderful!” I’m pretty sure my eyes are doing the same thing as hers.

She leans forward. “How far have you gone?”

I stick my hand up my shirt in demonstration and raise an eyebrow.

“That’s not much!” she looks sorely disappointed.

“I was proud of myself,” I say, pretending to be affronted. “It’s way harder than I thought it was going to be… He’s _so shy_. And it's only been, like, three weeks, I guess.”

“Really?” She blinks. “Things got weird way before that.”

“Yeah, um, there was a temporary blockade, so!” I clap my hands louder than intended. “I'll let you know how the groping goes.”

“Good.” She pauses. “Actually, if he’s shy, he won’t like that.”

“You already know too much, by his standard!” I clutch the sides of my head.

“Just…deflect his attention, and I’ll pretend I don’t know,” she says.

I nod. “We can do that! We’re actors!”

“Yeah!” she says, giving me a high five.

~*~

Yes. It was a good idea. Sadly, it's been killed. Poor thing; it was only a day old.

Elaine is trying very hard not to giggle. I’m trying very hard not to look proud. It’s valiant, really. We should be given an award. Something good. Definitely not the icy glare Elliot is giving us.

“It’s your fault!” he says, hands balled into fists. “I bet you didn’t even try to hide it!”

“Sorry, dearest!” I try to hug him, but we’re at school, in the courtyard, so he dodges away from me, eyes bulging with outrage.

“You just want the attention!” he says.

“Yeah…that’s what you have to expect with me!” I say.

“Yes, okay, but you get enough attention as it is. Please don’t foist it on me. I don’t want it.” He slams his bag down on our bench, but makes no move to sit down or get out his lunchbox.

“I won’t tell anyone!” Elaine interjects. “Please don’t be mad! I think you guys are cute together!”

“I’m not mad at you,” he says, looking at her far more kindly than me. Poor girl. She didn’t mean to be nosy (no – interested in her best friend’s love life, not nosy). Collateral damage! Whereas I’m the enemy.

“Still, I promise not to tell anyone,” she sits down next to his bag and shuffles close. He nearly jumps when she pats his side.

“I’m sure you mean not to.” But she probably will? Right? _Paranoid!_

“Come on, I don’t have as big a mouth as Andrew!”

“Hey! I didn’t _say_ anything!” I say, then turn to Elliot. “ _And_ you tempted me by being cute, so it’s partly _your_ fault.”

His glare says ‘don’t blame this on me, you giant turd’. I look down at my feet and shuffle them, but the glare is still there when I look up.

“Please don’t hate me,” I whine.

“Unfortunately, I don’t hate you,” he says sullenly, glancing at the group of kids passing our bench.

~*~

When we’re walking home from school, Elliot says to me, looking furtively at the concrete passing beneath our feet, “Do you think Elaine really means it? Or is she just being nice?”

“About us being cute? Yeah, definitely. She's right into gay guys.” I smirk.

“It’s kind of hard to believe that kind of thinking is real, when you’re confronted by the opposite most of the time,” he says.

“Thankfully, not everyone thinks like my dear old dad,” I say, laughing through my grimace.

“What about your other friends? Benjamin and Lance? What do you think they’d think about it?”

“They’d welcome us to the club!” I laugh.

“But seriously,” he says, smiling.

“Er… They pretty much know I’m gay already. Probably would feel uncomfortable but only a little bit. I mean, for all Benjy’s ‘yay I’m a man, watch me pound my chest’, he’s actually pretty cool about it, even if he acts like it’s the grossest thing he could ever do. And Lance thinks about things too much to have any sort of judgemental ideas about anything.” I pause and breathe. He says nothing, so I ask, “Are you worried about Carmen?”

“A little bit,” he says reluctantly. “Though, it doesn’t matter now, so I shouldn’t think about it.”

I don’t know what to say about that, because I truly think she’d believe we’re going to hell. She pretty much believes that about me already. So instead I say, “She surprised me, yesterday. I actually had a fun conversation with her!”

“She’s pretty nice,” he nods, smiling. “And excitable and annoying and sometimes cruel, just like you.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Slander,” I say, pointing a finger at him. He just laughs. Actually, I know it’s true. I saw it, too. Bah!

“Oh yeah,” he says, “I’m still mad at you, just so you know.”

I pause in my finger-pointing and blink at him. Where did that come from? Just forget about it!

“Come on, Elliot, I didn’t _mean to_ ,” I say, clinging to his arm with my spidery fingers. He shakes me off like I’m slimy.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want it. You’re not taking this seriously at all,” he says, and his smile has fully vanished, now.

“Can I make it up to you?”

“I guess so…” he shrugs.

“Then I will!” I say, punching my fist into the cloudy sky. “I’ll have you begging _me_ for forgiveness for _this_!”

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and I know he doesn’t believe me. _You’ll see._


	8. Chapter 8

The lunch bell rings, cutting short Mr Damask's sentence about what some boring politician did during the Cold War. I throw my panda pencil case and hard-back exercise book into my bag and screech my chair backwards.

“Wanna come to my house on Saturday?” I ask Elliot as he stands up, next to me.

“For another attempt to make me less mad?” he asks, but he’s smiling.

“Pretty much,” I say, grinning. “And because you love my attention so much!”

He laughs, then frowns. “Wait, sorry, I made plans to go over to Dan’s house. He got the new Tekken game. Damn.”

“Hey, it’s okay!” I say, even though I feel like stealing him. “We’ll see each other on Sunday, right?”

Elliot nods and smiles, though his eyes are wavering with disappointment.

When we get to the locker hallway, Elaine runs up to us, dodging a group of Year 9s with fluffy pens sticking out of their hair buns.

“Elliot!” she calls, completely ignoring me, grrr. “Are you sitting with us today?”

“Sure.” He smiles, grabbing his lunchbox out of his locker. “But…can we sit with my friends, too?”

“Okay,” Elaine and I both nod, and we make our way over to the bench they customarily gather on. It actually has a table attached to it, unlike the wooden slats Elaine and I sit on.

Everyone stares at us when we sit down, but their eyes are smiling. Except for Elsa and Sandy, who glance at us over manicured nails, then keep talking in, well, Mandarin, I suppose. Well! Elliot may find that…comfortable or whatever…but I certainly don’t! I’m n-

“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” Elaine says before I can say something not-so-nice.

“It’s alright,” Nadine says. Her ponytail is scraped back so tight it looks painful. “You’re good to Elliot, so we like you.”

“Yay! Brought together by the asocial one,” I say, hugging Elliot side on. Everyone laughs and he just stares at his lunchbox all embarrassed-like.

“But you’re coming over this weekend, right?” Dan asks.

“Yeah, Tekken 5!” says James, grinning.

“Of course,” Elliot nods, then seems to realise that I’ve been hugging him a bit longer than is platonically acceptable, and elbows me off.

Pout.

“How’s your photography assignment going?” Nadine asks Elaine.

Elaine wrinkles her nose. “Stuffed in the closet of my brain.”

Nadine laughs. “I wish I could do that. I begged my parents to let me to take photography, and now I have to do well, or…” She makes a face that predicts an unpleasant outcome.

“Really? That sucks,” Elaine says. “I should be working hard, too, since I want to be a photographer and all-“

“Really? What do your parents think about that?” Nadine and just about everyone else leans forwards.

Elaine’s arms squish into her sides and her eyes widen at the scrutiny. “Mum thinks it’s pretty cool, I guess. She said I can do what I want, as long as I’m happy.”

The others look at each other, mouths in gasping ‘o’s.

“Your mum is nice!” Lacey says, squishing her cup of jelly, which is shaped like a puppy. “Mine got mad when I thought about being a medical researcher instead of a doctor.”

“I’m going to be an architect or a lawyer,” Nadine says. “But only because I can’t do science.”

“My parents are only paying for my uni fees if I go to medical school,” Dan says.

“Aah, it’s nice when your parents have given up on you ever doing anything decent,” I sigh indulgently.

“Aren’t you afraid they’ll be mad?” Nadine asks.

“It’s how I know I’m doing the right thing!” I laugh.

Lacey shakes her head. “I’m too worried about my parents hating me.”

“They won’t hate you, they’re your parents!” James says. “But I think they know what will be best.”

I look over at Elliot and notice he’s paler than usual and his stare is fixed on his lunchbox. Actually, that paleness looks a bit sickly…and he’s breathing harder than usual.

“Hey, where are you from?” I ask Nadine suddenly.

She blinks. “Taiwan."

“You speak Mandarin there, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me some swear words!”

She laughs outright.

“Tāmāde!” James blurts out before she can say anything.

I feel something soft pulling my hand out of my lap, and realise it’s Elliot's hand. I smile over at him, and he smiles back in the most adorable and grateful way, squeezing my hand while the table encloses us in wood and navy paint and...I’m just…just…feeling a tad gooey right now. I want to hug him. I try to slide my hand up his arm, but he grips it in his and keeps it there.

So I steal his school diary and scribble strange notes like ‘don’t forget to leave the fish out on the lawn or the wildebeest will come back’ on random pages, and the others join in until he realises we’re writing all over days that haven’t been yet and steals it back.

~*~

So. Today, Saturday, isn’t such a bust, after all. I’m out at Queen Street with Nadine and Elaine. Maybe this will give me an opportunity to figure out how to make it up to Elliot.

Nadine's black hair is curled into perfect spirals, framing her impeccable makeup. Her glittery top, pleated skirt and stilettos make the clothes in the shop windows look like someone pasted scraps of material higgledy-piggledy onto mannequins. You just don’t see these things about people when they’re in their school uniform. Elaine, as usual, is hiding her curvaceousness under a man's shirt, and I’m wearing a princely jacket that Adam Ant would’ve been so jealous of.

Elaine and I are talking about whether Matthew Bellamy could break glass if he sang high enough, while Nadine listens patiently and my mind wanders elsewhere, scanning the shops for something that screams ‘Elliot!’

I see a glasses shop, with its attempt at modern art in the display window, glasses propped up at odd angles along a fake elephant tusk. Maybe a new glasses case? Oh my god, Andrew, very romantic.

“Do you guys find it weird,” Nadine finally says, “that most of the people on Queen St are Asian?”

I blink, surprised, and look around. Wow, she’s right… There are at least three big groups traipsing up the gummy street in our immediate vicinity.

“Maybe a little bit,” I say. “My dad sometimes complains about it. But he’s a jerk,” I throw the last bit in reassuringly.

She smiles a little and looks down. “It is a bit weird though, isn’t it?”

“Never thought much about it before,” Elaine says.

“I'm not worried,” I say, putting an arm around her shoulders. "You can be our guide."

She laughs and hunches, reminding me of Elliot. “Okay. I’ll show you a shop I really like.”

So she leads us through to a side alley, in between two western chain shops displaying the exact same blazer. Across cream and black tiles and past a full sized shop selling only socks, we come to a window framed by pink material and showing off some of the cutest jewelry I've ever seen. The shop assistant peering over the display is just as cute, but her round eyes are glaring at us, her full lips are pursed, and her nose is pointing at the fluffy lampshade overhead.

We ignore her and enter the shop, looking around at the necklaces with stars and moons and frogs on them. Elaine and Nadine try on every second thing they see. None of them look like anything Elliot would be remotely interested in, so I’m not particularly focused. Besides, if I beg Dad for money, I might be able to afford some Vivienne Westwood.

Elaine needs a shopping cart for the amount of hairclips she’s cradling in her arms, and half of them are snagging in her t-shirt. The shop assistant stays behind the counter, flicking through her magazine while glancing at us as though we're about to commit clip robbery.

“There’ll be plenty of nice hairclips in another shop,” I say to Elaine. “Just dump them on the bitch without buying them.”

Nadine looks slightly appalled but says, “There’s another shop next door that sells the same sort of things.”

Elaine looks down at the pile of clips in her arms, all sparkly and monochrome and tacky and stylish, then over at the shop assistant, who’s now filing her nails and looking over her hands at us in a menacing way, and nods.

“She’s like those girls in that expensive jewellery shop in Newmarket, but she doesn’t even have the excuse of fancy products…” she says, before she goes over to the counter and drops all the hairclips onto its clattery glass surface. We walk out of the shop before the girl can touch her cash register.

Wringing the strap of her forest-green bag, Nadine says, “Now I feel as rude as her.”

“It’s Andrew’s obnoxious influence,” Elaine says, kicking me in the shin, but I can tell from her expression that she’s happy she didn’t give that girl her money.

The shop assistant in the next place leaps out from behind the counter before we've crossed the threshhold, her smile touching her cheekbones. She stalks us around the shop, praising all of Elaine's choices until they end up with twice as many hairclips as before, all piled up on the counter. Elaine shows Nadine and I each one, trying to decide which ones to buy and which ones not to.

“That one’s really cute! It suits your pretty hair so much!” the shop assistant says of a gigantic flower that Elaine looks dubious about.

I wrinkle my nose and shake my head, while Nadine says, “It’s not as nice as the others…”

So it goes into the pile of unwanted ones, which I’m sure the shop assistant is thinking of as the ‘not sure about’ pile.

I'm bored. This reminds me of shopping with Mum when I was little, when I used to hide in the clothes and jump out at people, wearing middle-aged women's blouses. I wander off down the aisles of jewellery, until I come to the love/friendship necklaces. I’ve always thought those were cute, but Elaine refuses to wear them because they'd contribute to the 'gross' rumours about us.

Most of them are heart-shaped or things like a lock and key. Those wouldn't just contribute to rumours - they'd start them.

Ooh, that one just caught my eye. The two necklaces make a circle when joined, one white and the other black, in a yin/yang shape, with the dots of opposite colour inside. It’s different to the others, and…maybe Elliot would wear it.

I hold the two necklaces up to the light, where the metal glints sparks of light into my eyes. My cheeks start to prickle and burn. I feel them with the back of my hand, then whirl around to face the wall, the necklaces swinging from my fist. I want to hide them from the others, and not just because Elliot would want me to. No, no, no. I’m _not_ embarrassed.

While Elaine and Nadine are trying to decide between a blue rhinestone clip and a thick, bold red one (doesn’t she have a million of those?), I sneak over to the counter. I grin at the shop assistant, then point from the necklaces to Nadine and Elaine, pressing a finger to my lips. She stifles a giggle, then completes the transaction without even a ding of the cash register.

Finally, Elaine leaves with six clips in a little pink plastic bag, the shop assistant waving us goodbye while she puts back the sixty she didn’t buy. I pat at the lump my own package is making in my pocket, in case it fell out in the last two seconds since I touched it.

Now I can make it up to Elliot for spilling his secret, but...maybe he won’t like it or will think it’s funny in a bad way... _Honestly_ , this isn’t like me.

~*~

I close my eyes and listen to the man on the TV, searching through his voice for its idiosyncrasies. It's deeper and softer than mine, and he enunciates all of his vowels. I open my eyes and study his mouth, before the camera switches to a view of a farmyard that looks soon to turn into a desert, then try to copy the last word he said.

"Capable."

“Sounds nothing like him,” David says, the couch jostling as he sits next to me.

“I’m _working on it_.” I roll my eyes, swooping them past his idiocy. “Let’s see you do better.”

“No way. I’m not wasting my time with that crap. I can do _useful_ things.”

“You sound just like Dad!” I say, grimacing like I'm going to throw up.

“So what? He’s right, you know. But you’re going to be poooor.” He leans near me, forcing the word at my face, and I whack his head away.

He takes a swing at me and I swat his arm away with a cushion, so he lunges at me, trying to get me into a headlock. I batter at his head with my palms.

“It is vanity to think you could defeat me!” I bellow in a regal voice, while he snarls like a barbarian.

“Settle down, you two,” Dad bellows even louder, and I hear his footsteps stomping down the hall. He’s the giant, come to attack both cities, so the civilised folk and the barbarians will have to band together to defeat him.

But, no, the barbarian king is backing up and siding with the giant, taking up the underling role.

“Both of you, keep quiet; you’re giving your mother a headache,” Dad says, framed by the doorway, with David hovering at its edge in an almost supplicating pose.

“Mum complains of a headache when the TV’s at volume twenty.” I roll my eyes and hop off the couch.

“Settle down,” he repeats. “The Hunters’ll be over soon.”

“Sorry Dad,” David says, and you’d almost believe his remorse was genuine.

“Bye, losers,” I say, and flounce upstairs to my room.

I scuttle over to my bedside drawers and retrieve the necklaces. The chains sparkle just as much as before, and the halves still fit together. I tuck them back in the drawer and shut it tight.

At the sound of voices chirping downstairs and feet clopping against tiles, I peek my head out my door, then look back at my bedside drawers. Firmly shut, no sign of thievery in the last five seconds.

I gallop down the stairs, dodging Gregory, who's leaning against the bannister and waiting for Marilyn to take off her boots.

Amy is running over to our pantry like it’s her own and taking out _my_ lollies and stuffing them into her hideous little mouth. I run into the kitchen and stand over her, my sternest expression (which, I admit, looks like a joke) looming at her. She sneers at me and stuffs more lollies into her mouth. What a little pig!

“I don’t share my lollies with rude swine,” I say, trying to grab the packet back, but her grip is firm.

“Thr mihn nw,” she says with her mouth full and tightly closed, as if I’d want to reach into that cavern of spit and retrieve the half-chewed lollies in there.

“I’m sorry, I only speak English. Now give me back my lollies or I’ll eat your fingers instead,” I say, tugging on the packet again.

She doesn’t budge, only swallowing and saying, “No you won’t.”

“Oh, really?” I grin and crouch down, snapping my teeth in the direction of her hand.

She flinches, but doesn’t move. I lean forwards and chomp down on her finger, not enough to _really_ hurt but enough to cause discomfort. A look of disbelief lingers on her face before a wail usurps it and the packet falls to the floor.

Before I can grab the packet, another, pale hand does, and I look up to see Elliot clutching my lollies and smiling down at me.

“Mum! Elliot stole my lollies!” words form within Amy’s screech.

“They’re mine,” I roar, before leaping up and dragging Elliot by the hand upstairs to my room. Marilyn’s voice chases us up the stairs, a snarling mess that tangles in itself and I can’t make out the words.

Elliot flops onto my bed, his chest rising and falling under his grey t-shirt, while the breath catches in his throat. He shifts his head so it's lying on my flannelette-covered pillows.

“Sorry,” I say, fluffing my hair up at the back. It crunches in my hand, bending like plastic string. “I forgot I’m exceptionally fast.”

“And I’m exceptionally slow,” he pants out.

“My adorable little turtle,” I fall onto the bed, next to him.

“Please don’t make that my nickname,” he grimaces and flicks my arm.

We cuddle up closer to each other and he kisses me on the cheek, then freezes, fear in his eyes. He sits up and dashes over to the door, looking out at the hallway, then closing it. Looks like I won’t be able to call him turtle anymore…

He sits back on the bed, now panting from what looks like panic, his eyes wide and his mouth drawn.

“You’re my little paranoid,” I say, landing on a new nickname as I lean up wrap my arms around him.

“Careful,” he corrects.

“Paranoid.” I kiss his neck.

“This isn’t unreasonable,” he says, before tilting his head so that our lips meet. And now I don’t want to argue about it because his lips are far more interesting and his tongue is infiltrating my mouth and I’m overtaken by a hunger that has nothing to do with my stomach.

When he breaks off, he stares at his clasped hands and says, “I’m still mad at you.” His voice is still clogged with kisses.

“Not for long,” I say, suddenly remembering the necklaces.

“You thought of a way?” he asks as I scamper over to my chest of drawers and pull out the little package.

“Behold!” I announce, holding out the necklaces, dangling down from my fist. And then I feel it. That heat in my face, spreading everywhere, stabbing my jaw, and let's just throw the necklaces back into the drawer pretend they never existed.

Elliot’s mouth drops open. “Are you blushing?”

“I’m not!” I get out shakily. Well that was convincing. “I’m not!” I say more forcefully, stamping my foot.

“It’s okay,” Elliot says gently, getting up, walking over to me and giving me a cuddle. “Now you know how the rest of us feel.”

I look down at my feet, now embarrassed that I’m embarrassed, and the heat is starting to tingle. “I’m not,” I mumble.

He gently takes the necklaces from my hand, the chains snagging in my fingers before I let them go. Is that a condescending smile? Is he just pretending? Does he _actually_ like them? He’s not saying anything! Well, that’s normal, but ARGH.

Then he takes my face in his hands and kisses me passionately, breathing hard into my mouth and pressing himself against me. Now the heat is combining with another heat and it’s seeping into my brain and a great shiver tingles my bones and turns my muscles to soup and –

~*~

I stare at the whiteness in front of me, trying to make sense of it through the blur caught in my eyes. Ah, it's the ceiling. There is something soft under me, and I gradually realise it’s my bed. It dips down to the edge, where Elliot's sitting. Darling darling Elliot. Wait – why am I even lying down? Weren’t we just kissing? It feels like someone’s pressed a button and shifted me in one second.

“Are you alright?” Elliot asks, leaning over to look at me and gripping my duvet in his fists.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “What the dickens happened?”

“You fainted,” he says.

“I fainted when you kissed me,” I grin.

He looks down at his knees, his smile pressing itself into his mouth.

“You should be proud,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, looking back up at me and smiling with teeth. “I made you embarrassed, which no one can do.”

“Not about _that_!” I protest, sitting up with a jolt. “About making me faint.”

“Isn’t that why you fainted?” he asks slyly, looking at me sideways, eyelashes a-fluttering.

“I wanted to put that down to your hotness…”

He chokes a little. “Don’t be silly. It was the embarrassment.”

“I _wasn’t_ embarrassed. You’re making that bit up, because I don’t remember it at all,” I lie.

He holds up the necklaces and I feel that terrible twinge again, flaring up in my neck like a disease. He smiles, but doesn’t mention it.

After taking a breath that probably fills his entire body with air, he asks, “Can I please take these home with me? I promise to return your half.”

“Okay,” I say, confused, his smile like a door over whatever this is about, and I can see the lock bolted firmly. “Why? Tell me…” I bat my eyelashes at him.

“You’ll see,” he says.

I just want to pry that smile open with my own lips. Maybe then he'll tell me his secret. Is it hiding past these soft lips and behind his teeth, where everything's warm and wet? I pull him down to lie next to me, hooking an arm around his waist. His fingers tickle and rub at my neck, and I laugh into his mouth, breaking the kiss.

Wasn’t I supposed to be prying him for something? Oh well.

I lean in for another kiss.

“Dinner’s ready!” Mum’s voice injects itself into our little world, paralysing our limbs.

~*~

Mrs Crenton, the design technology teacher, walks into our form room and stands in front of Mrs Flenworthy's desk, lips pursed. Looks like she wants us to shut up. Unfortunately, it's 8:40, the roll has scarcely been called, and we're all embroiled in important discussions about the weekend. I'm telling Elliot a hilarious but untrue story about Benjy getting his sleeve caught in Lance's pant zip.

He shakes his head at me, eyebrows raised above his fringe, and looks ahead at Mrs Crenton. As the last of the chatter dies down, I have to postpone the climax of my story, much to Elliot's dismay, I imagine.

"Class," she says, fixing us all with a stare that morphs into a glare as it lands on me. What!? She doesn't even know me! "Today, I will be discussing career plans with each of you individually, while the rest of the class completes an exercise."

She pinches the spindly, silver wire of her glasses and slides them off, making her look ten years younger. Still, I'm not holding out much hope that her ideas will have modernised since David talked to her a year ago. He told me she had praised him for wanting to study business and discouraged another student from going to art school. What's up with that?

She picks up a stack of papers and hands them out, informing us of our task, which turns out to be a quiz on what career would be best for us. The pages have a web address printed at the bottom of each page, but instead of wondering why we couldn't have just filled these out online, I'm impressed that she even knows how to use the Internet.

Elliot is frowning at the first page and chewing on his pen. I tip my head to the side and wait for him to look at me. When he does look up, he smiles and the starts filling in one of the squares on the page. Past his shoulder, Carmen is flicking through the pages and grimacing.

Mrs Crenton returns to the front of the classroom, the thin line of her body separating the whiteboard into perfect halves, then starts calling students forward. I skim through the quiz while doodling in the corner of the pages.

"Andrew Cornwall!" Mrs Crenton calls out, making my shoulders jolt up to my ears. Oh crap, am I in trouble? She beckons me over and I make my way to the front of the class, to sit in the chair opposite hers. She crosses her legs and smiles at me, fluorescent light glinting off her glasses and obscuring her eyes.

"I see you're doing French, Japanese, English, Maths, Biology and Music. Very good," she says, taking off her glasses to look at the page in her hand. Her eyes are still hidden by her mascara-encrusted eyelashes. "What do you plan to study when you leave school?"

I was asked this last year, by Mrs Flenworthy of all people. Surely this woman will be less of an old biddy about it.

"I'm not going to university," I say. "Or maybe drama school, actually." Eugh, way to make yourself look uncertain and malleable.

She frowns, sliding her glasses back on and observing me through those fluorescent squares again. "What job are you aiming to get when you leave school?"

I shrug. "Something not too intense, that will pay my bills while I work on my music," I say. "I'm sure Dad'll be able to fit me somewhere into his company."

Her frown deepens. "What company would that be?"

I pause. "Something with consulting in the title."

My, what a large sigh that was. What? It's better than the answer I gave last year.

"I think you should consider studying Music or Languages, as they seem to be your strong points."

I grimace. Mr Kentle at a higher level? All of my passion sliding out of my ear in a dull lecture theatre?

I hear thirty or so pens scratching at paper, to my left. I glance over at the tops of my class mates’ heads, some fringes tickling their desks.

"I think I'll just practice on my own," I say.

She looks up at the clock, which has been wavering between 8:24 and 8:25 for about a week. I think Mrs Flenworthy did it on purpose, to stop us from waiting for her lessons to end.

"We've run out of time, but take these," she says, handing me some navy and forest green university brochures, "and have a little look; you may see something you like."

I stare at them all the way back to my seat, imagining myself sitting behind a desk for another three years. My toe whacks into the leg of my chair, and I fall into it, wincing. See? Even the furniture doesn't want that.


	9. Chapter 9

I’m sitting on Elliot's cornflower blue bedspread while he paces in front of me, pulling at the sleeve of his skivvy. I’d feel sorry for it, but it looks way past its prime, anyway, a grey colour that likely used to be black, with strings hanging down like jellyfish tendrils.

At this rate, he won't spit it out before dinner's ready. As he passes close by me, I reach out and grab his waist, saying, “What is it? Tell meeee.”

“Promise not to laugh?” His voice sounds stripped and weak.

“Well. You are aware of who I am, right?” I say, grinning. “Relax and tell me.”

He sighs. “Okay. You’ll probably laugh. Okay…”

He wrenches my hands off him, which now feel somewhat at a loss without the shape of his waist to guide their posture. When he goes to his bedside drawers and gets out the necklaces, I beam, and I don’t feel embarrassed this time, to my relief. Not that I was embarrassed before. Then he gets out a book. On its blue cover, it says ‘Travelling To Places That Don’t Exist’. He chucks it at me and looks at his feet.

Underneath the title, a blue orb hangs against a lighter blue background, looking like something from one of those arts and craft fairs that seem like they’re going to be fun but just end up being a place to sell fork-sculptures at exorbitant prices. I look up and quirk an eyebrow at him, but he’s still looking at his feet. That irks me. I’m far more interesting than his sneakers.

I flip the book over and read the blurb:

The power of true travel is now at your fingertips! Leave this plane of existence at minimal risk and minimal cost! Magic has never been more accessible in this comprehensive guide to _Travelling To Places That Don’t Exist_. Find that secluded beach you’ve always dreamed of, and escape…

Um, okay. I open the book, but the diagrams of palm-prints in clay and puzzle-pieces buried in pot-plants just make me even more confused. Because it should be more facetious than it is. It _can’t_ be serious.

I look up at him, he looks up at me, and his face falls.

“Worse than laughing,” he mumbles.

“Do you believe this?” I ask.

He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs, and lets it out slowly through a pinched mouth. He looks paler than ever…almost green. I hope today isn’t _his_ fainting day.

“Yes I do. Because it works.” He’s walking over to his cupboard and getting two big jackets. I’m not sure why... The sun may be low and straining through the winter sky, but it's still shining through his bedroom window. “Uh…please wear this,” he says meekly as he holds one out for me.

I take it because I’m not in a contrary mood, with him looking like a china cup, even though I’m…maybe…just a bit… _appalled_. He hands me the white half of the necklaces, and I put it on, while he puts the black one on. That’s what I would have chosen, anyway.

There is only the rustle of his grey jackets, clutched in our fists, until I ask, “What are we doing?”

He takes another deep breath and says, “I’m going to show you that it’s real.”

"Kids! Come down for dinner!" Gregory calls up the stairs, and Elliot jumps as though he's been hit, dropping the jacket he's holding.

"That's what I get for taking so long," he mutters shakily.

"Wait, I still don't understand," I say, grabbing his hand as he takes the jacket off me.

"I'll tell you after dinner," he says, with an apologetic tone and a sigh of relief. He squeezes my hand, then chucks the two jackets onto the bed, where they flop together in an embrace.

And then he shoves his necklace under the blue material of his t-shirt, and reaches for mine.

"What are you doing?" I duck away from him and clutch at the white pendant.

"It will still be there," he pleads. "Just...hidden and safe." I catch sight of a tiny quiver in his bottom lip and I can't help shoving mine under my collar, where it hangs in a lonely prison of yellow fabric.

He clutches the sides of my face and kisses me, then takes my hand and leads me to the door. As soon as he opens the door, his fingers spring open and his hand snaps into place by his side, leaving my own hand floating in air.

We walk downstairs and into the dining room, where everyone is seated but Mum, who's spooning potatoes onto Amy's plate. She looks up, smiling, then squints at us, the worry lines around her eyes deepening. I give her a big grin, and she starts that soft laughter of hers.

Elliot and I sit in the two empty chairs opposite Rebecca and Amy. Rebecca is pulling on her light brown hair and staring at her food. She glances at us for the briefest moment, then back at the casserole on her plate.

"So, anyway," Marilyn says, as though I'd just barged in flinging my voice around the room. "We went back, and I told them to get their manager. At first, they just stood there, utterly gormless, so I got out my cell phone and said, right, what's the phone number for head office? Oh! Suddenly the manager was available!"

Elliot spoons some casserole onto my plate, then gives himself half as much. I wrinkle my nose at him and scoop up some of mine, plonking it on his plate, the chink of my spoon making us both jump.

"Yes, and he was lovely," Mum says, beaming over at Marilyn as she sits down. "He told the courier to come back to our house and drop it off."

"Easy as that! Now, why they couldn't do that in the first place..." Marilyn shrugs.

"They were taking advantage of Ella's niceness," Dad says, squeezing Mum's arm. "Good thing you were there." He nods at Marilyn.

So. Marilyn's bossiness has its uses.

My stomach churns and whimpers, so I eat some of the casserole. A lump in my throat blocks its passage momentarily, but I manage to swallow it down, where it just seems to sail upon the churning of my stomach, instead of settling it.

Elliot pokes at his food, then puts his near-empty fork in his mouth a few times. After a while of this, he says, "May I please be excused?" He stares just below Marilyn's head.

"You've barely eaten anything," she says, eyes sharpening on his plate.

"I'm not hungry. Can I please have it for lunch tomorrow?" He asks.

Her mouth twists like barbed wire.

Before she can say anything, I say, "I'm not hungry, either."

"Were you two eating lollies up there?" Her palm flattens against the table top.

"No," I shake my head.

"Are you stressed about something at school?" Mum leans over and places a hand on each of our arms, while Dad scoffs.

Rebecca raises her head. "You've got the Australian Schools science test tomorrow, right?"

"Shame!" David says, and I poke my tongue out at him.

"Have you studied?" Marilyn narrows her eyes at Elliot. "Not with _him_ , I'll guess." She waves her hand at me. I brindle, but she's right.

"You can't study for it. It's general knowledge," Elliot says, returning her glare.

"I'm not buying that. Go and study _now._ " She points up the stairs.

"Fine." Elliot shoves his chair back, takes his plate to the sink and chucks his uneaten dinner down the waste disposal. The noise scorches its way through the dining room. He stomps back past the table, with me trotting behind him.

My stomach growls, but the lump in my throat is expanding and I'm sure no food will get past it. I shut Elliot's bedroom door after me and lean on it.

"I didn't know we had a test," I say.

"Rebecca lied," he says with a small smile. He lets a gust of hot air out of his nose and picks his coats up off his bed. "I'll show you, now."

We shroud ourselves in the coats, and then that little black pendant rises out of his t-shirt, clutched in his hand like a baby bird, and I grin, pulling mine out. He closes the gap between us in one step. I nod my head downwards, bumping my nose against his. A little laugh cracks through the tension in his face, and his hands soften their posture as he takes my pendant from me and slots it next to his.

His bedroom blinks away – wait, what's happening, what's happening? We’re nowhere and the air is too empty and too full at the same time, and the blackness is pressing on my eyes, fuck, oh fuck. But he’s here, holding onto me, and the necklaces are still joined, though he’s not holding them anymore.

And then they sink back to our chests, the circle broken, and the blackness takes its pressure off my eyes and gives way to whiteness, but not complete whiteness. There are trees and rocks and the whiteness is actually snow. Air starts to exist again, but it's cold and stinging my throat and my lungs are repelling it, but I need it and my gasps are letting barely any of it in. I feel dizzy; this is too much; the white ground is lurching, mounds of snow undulating beneath me.

Warm plastic hits my mouth and medicinal air puffs in. I breathe it and breathe it again, and cough as the cold air finally fills my lungs. But I can’t think. Where am I? What the hell just happened? My panic usually leaves when I can breathe again, but this time it’s stuck in my head, tearing at all my neurons.

Soft hands are leading me by the shoulders down to the ground, and my bum hits a rock, where I find myself sitting. Elliot bends down in front of me, chest heaving in time with mine.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he pants. “What the hell was I thinking? This is a bad sign…”

“No such thing as a bad sign,” I say. “My asthma does not herald imminent death.”

His green eyes bulge, making my stomach churn in time with the ground.

“I’m alright,” I reassure him, lifting a tingling arm and stroking his chest. His woolen jacket seems to spark against my fingertips like tinder.

I look around me, at the pure white snow stretching out forever, interrupted only by trees and hills dotted around. Everything’s so…nondescript. We could be anywhere. But not home. It never snows in Auckland.

“I fainted," I say, "and you took me somewhere snowy. Are we in Queenstown? Queenstown's alright."

He shakes his head, resting his hands on my shoulders.

“Where are we?” I blink at him. Am I really this slow? I mean...I just don't get it.

“I don’t know. I don’t think it has anything to do with any other place in the physical world… If you walk for ages, nothing changes.”

I swallow hard and rub at my eyes, then at my throat, which is still angry after the cold tried to scrape past it. A laugh bursts out of me and dies quickly. Ow. I suck in a deep breath, but the air goes straight to my head and spins in circles.

“We were in your room a second ago,” I say, wincing at all the fissures in my voice.

He sits on the rock next to me and puts an arm around my waist, staring out at the whiteness. His warm arm settles on my tingling skin, quelling some of my nerves.

“How often do you come here?” I ask.

“Um. A lot,” he says, looking down at his hands. He looks at me shyly. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“Hell yes,” I say, laughing incredulously. “That you’d believe the book enough to read it, let alone try it, that it turned out to be true… It’s ridiculous! I think I’m asleep. I _am_ asleep, right?” I turn to him, clutching his upper arms and nodding vigorously.

“In the real world, you are,” he says, laying gentle hands on my chest. That's not what I meant! “I probably should have made sure we were sitting on my bed, because we’ll have collapsed onto the floor… Might have a sore head when you wake up.”

"There is _not_ another me somewhere else,” I say, kicking at the snow. The physical feel of it breaking against my shoe and the vivid sight of it splaying and settling sends a jolt of shock up my neck that flicks my brain away from everything I know is real.

“I haven’t seen snow in ages…” I say slowly, then quickly ball some up and chuck it right in his face.

He wipes the snow off to reveal a grimace. “I didn’t bring you here to throw snowballs at me!” He says, belting me with his elbow.

He stoops down to gather a snowball of his own, but I’m way too fast for him, and duck behind a snow-iced tree before he knows what’s happening.

“Gar,” he makes a frustrated noise and chucks the snowball at the ground.

I peek out from my stronghold and chuck another at his head. He jumps as the snowball explodes against his shoulder, sending shrapnel everywhere.

“I’m not playing,” he says, plonking himself back down on the rock and wincing at the force with which he sits. We’re a couple of toddlers – he’s the sulky one and I’m the overexcited, mean one.

I look up and notice a lonely dead leaf dangling from above my head like mistletoe. Only a thin, stringy stem is keeping it atached to the tree. I pick it off and shove it in my pocket, then walk over and sit by Elliot, giving him a giant, squeezy cuddle. He sinks into my arms and lays his head on my shoulder.

“Sorry about this,” he says.

“I'll get over it. Actually, it’s nice that you’ve shown me this secret. You’re usually very…solitary about stuff.”

“Not now,” he says, holding me like a limpet and burrowing his head into my chest.

My face burns against the icy air, and I squeeze him tighter, a jolt of energy sizzling through me.

Wait – he comes here alone? And enjoys that? All the cold and white and emptiness crowding around and scaring off everything else. Not even cute little bunnies to keep him company? I mean, sure, finding a new world, even if it doesn’t exist, is pretty exciting, but…him, here, all alone, many times?

“This place is more secret than our rooms, isn’t it?” he says, lifting his head up.

“Is that why you’re so relaxed?” I ask.

He looks at his knees and nods. “Probably.”

I kiss him and he kisses back without even checking the coast is clear. We kiss so long that my lips start to hurt, because no one can tell us it's time for me to go home.

He eventually unfastenens his lips from mine, saying, “We should probably go back before they try to find us. Might get a bit worried when we don't wake up.”

Okay, so it’s not completely fool proof.

He joins the necklaces together and the blackness presses in on us again, then releases its embrace. I suddenly feel gravity pulling me backwards, instead of down. Is that a pillow under my head? It’s not a very good one. Oh! It’s Elliot’s leg. In that case, it’s a very good leg. Speaking of limbs, I can’t feel my arm, just a lump under my back and a vague prickling.

And now the air won’t get into my lungs and my brain is fizzing with panic because I don’t know where my inhaler is. Oh, there it is, in my mouth, attached to Elliot’s hand.

“Maybe it’s not a good idea to take you there… I didn’t realise this would happen,” he says, putting the inhaler back in his pocket.

“Don’t worry – I’ll be fine as long as you’re around to think properly.” No asthma’s going to keep me out of my boyfriend’s secret world.

“Well, we’ll see…” he says, still looking at me as though I might suffocate at any moment.

Man, it's hot. Well, compared to before. I take off the jacket and fan myself, feeling like I’m still displaced from the real world, with the cold, grey sky glooming outside.

Elliot shoves his necklace under his t-shirt and does the same to mine. I feel a sick twinge in my gut but don't say anything, and kiss him to keep my mouth occupied. He tenses, despite leaning in to my lips. I can almost see his ears prick, his eyes dart, his antennae quiver, watching for anyone who might barge in on us and throw us in jail or worse.

~*~

My ceiling is so white, like the snow in Elliot's world. But there's no other version of me asleep anywhere. I can't even imagine myself falling asleep, right now.

Usually, I pass out before my head hits the pillow, but tonight I'm doing that tossing and turning thing that people talk about. I shove my face into my pillow, the pilled up flannelette grazing my cheek slightly. It smells like hairspray, reminding me of my morning ritual, only five hours away.

I put a leaf in my pocket, didn't I? Is it still there? Do I want to know? I get up and shuffle over to my trousers, folded over my desk chair and trailing onto the schoolbooks on my desk. I check both pockets, but only find a five cent coin and a whole lot of lint.

So...I guess I was never really there, physically. Is that a relief or a terror? Maybe it's a little hard to care, when I think about how carelessly Elliot kissed me, yesterday. Then again, did he really kiss me, or was I dreaming?

Of course it was a dream.

~*~

The next morning, I race up to Elliot’s room, past a scornful looking witch, I mean, the mother of my boyfriend, and peek my head in. At the computer again! Obviously for a long time, judging by how slouched his back is (his shoulders are almost up to his ears!).

He instantly turns to me and smiles.

“Hey!” I say. “Watcha playin’?”

“Eh, a stupid browser game an unreliable source told me was good,” he says, shrugging and unfolding into a standing position. “Can we go to the world again?” he asks as he hugs me.

I hug him back, squinting at his wardrobe, with the two grey jackets hanging in the shadows. Am I still asleep?

“Sure,” I say, giving his forehead a kiss.

“How about we sit on the floor with our backs against the bed," he says, pointing to the edge of his bed. "Then we won't wake up feeling like our arms have been amputated.”

"What about _on_ the bed?" I hold him tight and shuffle towards his puffy, blue duvet.

"Someone might walk in!" he says, though he lets me manouver him. Dream Elliot sure is in character.

When I release him from the hug, he goes and gets the two grey jackets. I take the lighter grey one and frown at it. Maybe if I concentrate really hard, it'll turn red. I close my eyes and imagine it, just as it is, but red. Then the buttons turn gold, with skull and crossbones engraved on them. I open my eyes. The same grey jacket, hanging from my hand like it's given up.

My heart starts beating faster, and I say, "Okay, let's just go."

“Wait-“ he says, shoving a hand in his jeans pocket and pulling out my blue inhaler, smiling ruefully. “Okay, now.”

We sit down by the bed, making sure our backs are properly supported and not liable to sliding over onto each other (that criterion is Elliot’s fault, of course). My heart beats even faster, almost throwing itself against my ribs, probably trying to use as much oxygen as possible before the cold air and my windpipes have another war. Elliot looks like he’s feeling the same. Am I really dreaming?

We jam the necklaces together, and the world leaves us for a suffocating moment, to be replaced by another one, again devoid of anything except us and my raspy breaths.

“Crap, crap, crap,” he says, shoving the inhaler in my mouth and reviving my ability to breathe. “Maybe you really shouldn’t come here.”

I sit down on the same rock as last time. It feels harder and lumpier than before. The cold is sticking into me like pins of ice. I pinch my wrist. Ow. The ache slowly dies down, but the pins are still there.

It's not a dream, is it? But it can't be real. It's too...too...

Laughter starts hiccuping out if me, while a watery sting settles at the base of my eyes. I won't cry if I keep laughing. My chest heaves as though I'm hyperventilating.

"I'm an idiot. I'm taking you home," Elliot says, hooking his fingers through the chain of my necklace.

"No!" I say, grabbing the necklace before he can put the two halves together. "You can't bring me here and then kick me out!"

I leap up and run off towards a hill more tightly populated with trees. Their branches are extended like they want to hug me and cover me with snow.

"Your asthma!" Elliot calls out, and I stop, whirling around to face him. He's only a few steps behind me, breathing hard, snow spraying from his heels.

When he catches up to me, he sinks his head into my chest in a dejected sort of way, and seems to stick there, because he doesn’t move until I clamp his head between my hands and tilt it up, leaning down to meet it at mouth-level. Odd, feverish feeling, kissing in the snow. Hot and lightheaded and shivery cold.

We break apart and he wipes snow off a tree stump, gesturing for me to sit.

"Are there any other places you can travel to?" I ask, sitting down and flicking a piece of bark off the stump.

He sits next to me and says, "No; I always end up here. But I don't mind. I can come here and do things on my own."

He squints up at the white sky as though he can see something in that massive cloud. His jaw and mouth have softened, like last time. He turns and smiles at me, gentle, green eyes twinkling in the dim light. This must be real.

~*~

Mr Sandel raises his arm to draw on the whiteboard, exposing a soaking armpit. Streaks of blue still arc over the gleaming surface of the board; the eraser laying at the bottom has bits of string trailing from its corners.

"America had nuclear bombs in Turkey," he says, drawing a squiggly blob and marking the edge of it with a dot. "Well positioned to fire at Russia."

He draws torpedoes in the direction of 'Russia', nearby on the board. They're a little too rounded, and their fins don't look very aerodynamic. Sniggers filter up from the class. I prod Elliot's leg under his desk, but he doesn't look at me.

"And Russia had-"

Waverly Lin cuts him off, "Are you implying that the Cold War was a specifically male endeavour?"

He spins around and blinks at her.

"My parents wouldn't be happy about you showing us these images," I chip in, smiling with all of my teeth.

Mr Sandel frowns at his drawing, then looks at us with raised eyebrows. He then proceeds with his lesson, his mouth a stubborn, straight line, though I notice the torpedoes coming from Cuba have pointed fins and heads.

After class, as soon as Mr Sandel has left the room, Liam Agless calls out across the rows of classmates loading bags on their backs, “Think you’re really funny, don’t you, Andrew?”

“You’re mixing up your words,” I say like a kindly teacher, tapping my pencil case against my palm. “I _know_ I’m really funny.”

I get a few affirming chuckles for that.

“No, you’re delusional and your voice is the most annoying thing on this-“

BAM. Elliot slams his folder onto Liam’s desk and stares him squarely in the eye. “Just shut up, alright?” he says, his words like steam.

Liam looks outraged for a second, then wilts under Elliot’s angry-face.

“Whatever,” he says, packing up the rest of his junk and escaping the classroom.

Elliot keeps staring menacingly after him, so I go up to him, a little laugh escaping my lips, despite his expression, and say quietly, “It's okay; I like being teased."

“What did you ever do to him?" he says, "You wouldn’t hurt a fly! Maybe throw a snowball at one-“ he stops and smiles at me. My insides squish together.

“I want you,” I say.

The angry look is back in his eyes and his cheeks are puffed out in embarrassment.

“What?” I say, batting my eyelashes. “You just put my bully in his place. How can you not expect this?”

“Don’t blame me for your big mouth,” he says, stalking off, the world map by the door almost billowing in his wake.

So…it’s okay that I want him, and not okay that I said so?

I follow him into the hall and see him bump into Rebecca. He shuffles past her, bowing slightly, as she pats him on the shoulder, mousey ponytail swinging.

“Are they close?” Carmen’s voice peeks up from behind me.

“Huh?” I turn to her. “Hmmm,” I turn back and study them as they hover between conversation and goodbyes. “Used to be. They were so cute! Always playing together and holding hands.” (I used to get so jealous!) “Now, not so much.”

“Oh,” she nods, frowning, then jumps a little. “I’m late for piano!”

“You play?” I exclaim.

“Not like Elaine!” she says, waving her hands in a dismissive gesture as she darts off, yellow light bouncing off her heels.

~*~

My head is buried within the rainbow of fabrics in my wardrobe, the zip of my blue boots tickling my chin. But I'm not looking for my blue boots. I've never seen a crab with blue claws. So why, today of all days, can I not find my red ones? I swear they were here yesterday.

I emerge, feeling my hair to make sure it wasn't messed up by mischievous, dangling sleeves, and sit back on my heels. Mum will know. She knows everything about the house (she needs to get out more, seriously). So I gallop out of the room and down the stairs, heading for the living room, where I can hear a rising orchestra and muffled voices coming from the TV. When I swing into the room from the door frame, almost crashing into the wall, I find Dad sitting next to Mum on the couch. Mum has her head on his shoulder, and sits up, blinking, while he furrows his brows at me.

"Be careful, Andrew," he says, shifting like he's about to stand, then settling back into the dent in the cushions.

"Have either of you seen my bright red boots?" I ask. "I need them for tomorrow."

Mum's eyes widen and she bites her lip, looking at Dad.

He just says, "You're not wearing _those_ to school."

"I need them for the play," I say, though I suddenly want to parade them down the H block. "For some reason, the school's budget doesn't extend to real costumes."

"Too right." Dad nods, and I grimace.

"But do you know where they are?" I almost whine.

"I got rid of them," he says, no shame, no guilt, no sympathy.

" _What?_ " I screech.

"They were too," he waves his hand around and screws up his face.

"Why are you being so cavalier about this?" I wail, throwing myself against the doorframe.

"You don't need them." His voice is harsh but halting. "I've bought you plenty of sensible shoes."

"You hate me!" I say into the beige wallpaper.

"I don't hate you," he admonishes, but Mum cuts him off.

"They're still in the bin!" she warbles.

"The bin?!" I race out of the room, my outrage giving me winged feet, and bowl my way into the garage.

The green wheelie bin sits against the wall at the far end, slotted in the space beside the clothes dryer. I edge my way past Dad's car and yank the lid of the bin open, staring into its dark stench. The only things that aren't in white plastic supermarket bags are two bright red boots, zips gleaming copper in the light I'm letting in. I pluck them from their nestling place and carry them to the sink attached to the washing machine.

I glance at Dad's boring black work shoes by the doorway. Ha! I now know what happens to unattended shoes! I snatch them up, run back to the rubbish bin and fling them in.


	10. Chapter 10

“Wake up!” I yell, bounding into Elliot’s room and crashing myself onto his bed like I used to do to my parents when I was little.

“Nguhhhh,” he murmurs, pulling his covers over his head and rolling away from me.

“Wakey wakey!” I pull the covers back down and prod his cheek a few times, making him scrunch up his face.

“What time is it?” he asks, squinting at me through sleepy eyes.

“Seven!” I say proudly.

“And what day is it?” he asks.

“Saturday!”

“Is there an emergency?”

“Yes! A very dire one! My mouth is just _screaming_ out for kisses,” I say, planting one right on his lips. He responds slightly and lazily, letting me do most of the work but not pushing me away.

“You’re not going to leave me alone, now, are you?” he says when I sit up.

“No way; that just made me want more.” I say and kiss his nose.

“Okay, just be aware I might not be fully awake for some of it,” he says.

“Nooooo,” I whine, nuzzling his neck. It’s no fun if he just lies there and lets me do whatever. “You have to wake up.”

“Be happy with what you’re given at this hour,” he says.

I roll off him and onto my back. “True,” I say. “I was actually thinking you’d punch me in the face.”

“Too tired,” he sighs, snuggling back into his blankets.

“So what’m I supposed to do while you wake up?”

“Bring me breakfast?” A hand manages the energy to snake out and stroke my jaw, and I moan with loss as it retreats back under the covers like a turtle.

“Okay, sleepy head” I say, getting up and kissing his cheek before scampering out of his room and down the stairs.

While I’m trying to find the pan, Rebecca comes into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes with a hand peeping out of bunny-covered, flannelette pyjamas.

“Andrew,” she says, blinking at me and smoothing down hair that looks like an eighties wig. “I thought you said you were here to see Elliot. What’re you doing?”

“Making breakfast!” I say in my cheery morning voice that usually makes people throw slippers at me.

“But why? Is your kitchen broken?” She leans against the oven and peers at me like I’m a complex maths equation she has no hope of ever figuring out.

“No, silly! It’s for Elliot. If you show me where the pan is, I’ll make some for you, too.”

“Um, okay,” she says, stooping down to a rosewood cupboard and pulling out the pan.

“Thanks,” I say, taking it from her. I stare into the pantry for a moment, a bunch of ceramic containers glaring at me in messy rows, and ask, “What about the flour?”

“What’re you making? I’ll get all the ingredients,” she says, trudging over the pantry.

“Pancakes!” I say, licking my lips as she gets out the flour.

“I thought they weren’t for you,” she says as she collects a pile of containers on the bench. They're all different shapes and none of the colours match.

“Yeah, but I’m allowed some of my magnificent creation, am I not?”

“Okay. But… Why are you making Elliot breakfast, anyway?”

“Because he won’t wake up and I’m trying to pass the time until he does.”

“Right,” she says, staring at an egg in each hand. Even I’d feel a little overwhelmed by that much scrutiny. Okay, probably not me.

“I’m helping,” she says, fetching a glass bowl from a cupboard above her head and cracking the eggs into it. The yolks bounce against each other but never quite touch.

~*~

As the first pancake is frying, tiny bubbles emerging across its plane, I ask, “So, where’s that glorious nectar, maple syrup?”

“I don’t think we have any,” she says, looking into the fridge and pantry. Her head reemerges and shakes while the pantry doors rattle closed on that idea.

“Cream? Chocolate?” I ask and push out my lower lip.

She shakes her head without looking for them.

“What kind of a devil kitchen is this?” I wail. “Please tell me you’ve got lemon juice.”

“We have lemons,” she says, grabbing one from the fruit bowl and lobbing it to me.

“Aah, bless ye, beautiful fruit!” I exclaim, holding the lemon up so it catches the light and shines like a pointy-eared caricature of the sun.

“We’ve got icing sugar, too. And strawberries and stuff,” she says, digging her hands into the pantry.

“Yay!” I hug the lemon.

We finish the pancakes while cutting up lemons and strawberries and kiwifruit, keeping the cooked pancakes in the oven to stay warm. When we’re done, I race upstairs and pounce on Elliot again, wiping sticky fingers on his cheeks. He doesn’t seem to have moved since I last saw him.

“Come on, gorgeous, rise and shine.” I pull him up by an arm, like reeling in a fishing line, and he leans against me, wiping the gooeyness off his cheeks.

“Can’t I have it in bed?” he asks.

“Nope! Rebecca’s joining us. She helped make it! Now, get ye down those stairs.” I pull him by a grey, lint-covered sleeve out of his room. “I know you wanted me to feed it to you off my bare skin, but these things happen, you know?” I murmur into his ear, and he cough-laughs and doesn’t look at me. Ooohhh yeah, he wanted that.

As we round the corner and the table comes into view, we’re struck with a glorious sight; three plates full of pancakes, fruit and sugar, all laid out like a restaurant, albeit a restaurant without the necessary ingredient of maple syrup.

“Rebecca, your presentation is immaculate!” I exclaim, hugging her on the way to my chair.

“Yeah.” Elliot nods and sits down. “I was expecting to get a bowl of cornflakes shoved into my face while I was still in bed.”

“Cornflakes are no fun!” I say as I gouge through my pancakes with my knife.

“And…” Rebecca says slowly, squeezing lemon juice all over her pancakes and reaching for more sugar, “I think Andrew’s liking for you is more on the pancake level than the cornflake level.”

“What?” Elliot blinks at her, visibly clutching his knife and fork to stop himself from letting them clatter to the table.

“Nothing,” she says, blushing and busying herself with cutting her pancakes up like a pizza.

Elliot stares at me with wide-eyed worry for a second, before making his face go blank and staring at his own plate.

I swallow a piece of deliciousness and say, “We’re good friends now, of course. And all my good friends are pancake level. And we’re going shopping today.” I tilt my head to the side and smirk at Elliot.

“We’re what?” His eyebrows scrunch together.

Rebecca laughs. “It’s going to take a lot more than pancakes to soften him up for that! Remember the time you stole Mum’s keys and ran off to wait in the car?”

“Yes.” What a glare he’s giving her! Be careful not to stab your tongue with your fork, dearest; I need that.

~*~

Once we're in his room, door tightly closed, I say, "I'll buy you a computer thingy."

"Mum said I'm not allowed any more," he says into my shoulder, as though that would ever make a difference to him. "Can't we just go to the world? I haven't been going by myself, anymore."

“Really?” I blink, gripping his shoulders tight.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “It’s not the same anymore.”

My vocal chords work on their own, making up some language I’ve never heard before, but if it’s as onomatopoeic as it sounds, I’m saying something joyful! And then I'm kissing him and pushing him towards his wardrobe, home of the woolen, grey jackets that, yeah, scratch at my skin, but I'll wear them any day for him.

~*~

Well then. No surprises with this bombshell.

Rebecca found out about us. And when I say ‘found out’ I mean ‘realised’. Looks like she’s the only one in her family who pays proper attention to Elliot, besides waiting for him to slip up.

“She wants to talk to you,” Elliot says, squeezing his knuckles and shuffling from one end of his bedroom to the other. “I’ll tell her no. I’ll try to make her stop believing it.”

“I want to talk to her!” I say, putting soothing (I hope) hands on his shoulders and pressing down so he stops pacing. His curtains tower over us, shifting in the wind beyond the window. “Let’s make her see our point of view. And if she doesn’t, we’ll blackmail her!”

“Well, she has been going to dance lessons, even though Mum and Dad told her she should stop and concentrate on her studies… Maybe she’ll understand…”

“That’s perfect! Tell her we’ll tell them if she does. Your mum’s scary…she’ll never do it.”

He rubs his eyes like a stressed old man. “That seems…mean…but I guess she’d deserve it if she told on us… Okay. But we’re not telling her that at first. It’s a last resort.”

We trundle down the hallway, a pitiful, yet brave two-man army heading for Rebecca’s shut door. Elliot knocks and she opens it a crack, peeking out. The hallway light flecks her brown hair with ginger. She sighs with relief as she sees Elliot, then gives me a nervous glance.

“Okay,” she says, opening the door wider and ushering us in. “That was fast.”

“Better to do it now, I guess,” Elliot says, shuffling into the middle of her room. I edge closer to him and pat him on the shoulder.

“Yeah,” she says, nodding, clearly waiting for him to talk first.

Only problem is, he’s waiting for her to do the same. They’re batting the responsibility of that hefty task back and forth between their eyes, and I’m just standing here, feeling like someone who’s been invited to a feast and found a sheep shearing competition instead. Isn’t this _talk_ supposed to involve _talking_?

“Rebecca,” I say, breaking the silence, and they fix their accusatory eyes on me. Oh, so they were enjoying their little game? Okay, now they look relieved. The responsibility is fleeing from both of them. It doesn’t trust them to take care of it. It has run to me, an extremely irresponsible person, instead. What have they done?! “Rebecca, what do you know and what do you think of it?”

She looks down at her shoes and twists her mouth. “Well, I know that you’ve both been acting weirdly with each other, and in general, and you suddenly seem to be very…fond…of each other… And all that time you spend locked away together. And Elliot’s become really distant from everyone else. You know, even more so… And then I became suspicious and asked him about it and he completely flaked because he can’t lie to save his life.”

He nods ruefully when I narrow my eyes at him.

“Now you understand,” I say. “And you can’t be mad anymore.”

“I haven’t been mad – for a while,” he says, and hot pins seem to speckle my face. No, I'm not _blushing._

Rebecca coughs, bringing our attention back to her. Obviously that was a bit too much PDA for her. Jeez, what a stuffy family.

“And,” I say, edging her on. “How do you feel about it?”

She blows air into her cheeks and hunches. Is this inability to express feelings genetic? “I…um…think it shouldn’t be happening, whatever’s happening.”

Elliot looks like he was expecting this, but no less desolate.

“Why?” I demand.

She sighs like she’s in physical pain. “Mum and Dad’ll go ballistic. It’s not worth it. Plus, it’ll probably pass, especially if you don’t encourage it.”

“What about you and dancing?” he asks the ground.

“I’m not going anymore,” she says. “Seriously. I was going to do it secretly, but I couldn’t. I’ll just do like they say and focus on something more worthwhile. They know what’s best for me.” She grimaces an sits on her bedspread, still the giraffe one Mum gave her for her eleventh birthday.

“But you’re a really good dancer,” I say, jumping onto the balls of my feet. “Like hell they know what’s best for you! They know crap all! They’re just stupid parents. They don’t just not _know_ what’s best for you, they don’t _want_ it, either. They want what _they_ want.”

“I don’t believe that,” she says quietly.

“Don’t be a sell-out,” Elliot says. “You’ll regret it. Just hide it until you’re free of them.”

“And risk losing them? It’s not worth it. And this,” she gestures to us, “isn’t worth it, either.”

I breathe in hard through my nose. “It so is."

“Whatever you do, don’t tell,” Elliot pleads.

“Of course I won’t tell,” she says, nice if not understanding. “But think about it. Before you mess things up.”

“Same to you,” Elliot says.

“Okay,” she says quietly, then steps forward and sweeps him up in a big hug. He cuddles her back, shoulders hunched, arms rigid and squeezing. When they part, they give each other looks that make me wonder if Elliot’s got another crack-pot book, one about telepathy, and then he’s leading me out of her room.

“Calm down,” I say out in the hall.

Over the stairwell, I can see the front door is open and banging against the door-stop.

“I am calm,” he says as if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. He doesn’t fool me with his outer demeanour and false innocence.

“It’ll be alright. She obviously won’t tell. If it will make you feel better, we can find another piece of dirt on her and keep it for blackmail.”

“Don’t bother. She just surrendered the last vestige of herself to them. She’ll be a food nutritionist, vegetarian, of course, just like they want, and they won’t be satisfied, but at least she’ll feel like she’s being a good girl.”

I wrinkle my nose, while he trudges with his head hanging low, feet embedding in the carpet with each stomp.

~*~

I stand my guitar vertically and twirl it by the fret bar, pouting at Benjy and Lance. Benjy raises an eyebrow from behind his drum kit, while Lance sits on a dusty bench, resting his bass on his knees. Elaine's keyboard sits unattended in the corner of Benjy's garage, next to a metal shelf full of books.

“Stupid photography project," I say.

Benjy echoes my grumble and turns to Lance. “This is why we shouldn't be in a band with high schoolers.”

My voice rises. “You were in high school when we started!”

“I don't remember that.” Benjy shrugs.

“You were there, physically,” Lance says.

“You'd know!” I point at Lance.

“Shut up!” Benjy throws at me.

I look around for Elaine to back me up, but oh yeah, she's working on her stupid photography project.

I set my guitar down and grab my backpack from the corner of the garage. Somewhere in the bottom, past the schoolbooks and jumper, I find my mobile phone and flip it open.

“You're going to pester her, aren't you?” Lance says, and I can't tell whether he disapproves of that.

“ _I'm_ not going to,” I say with a cackle, and they stare at me, unsure. While I call her home phone, I grin at them, eyes a-glinting, and put it on speakerphone.

“Hello, Elaine speaking,” her voice sifts through the narrow speaker on the side of my phone, and I jump in fright.

“Hello,” I say in the voice of Timothy Parks. “It's Tim, from school.”

“Oh. Hey. How'd you get my number?” she says, the words clipped upon her unease.

“It was suprisingly easy to get,” I say in the voice Timothy uses when he gets a Maths question right.

“What?!”

Benjy presses his lips together and gets up, tiptoeing closer. Lance raises an eyebrow and pulls at his woolen sleeve with his teeth.

“I wanted to ask if you'd go out with me,” I say, the most confident Timothy's voice has ever sounded.

“No! I don't even know how you- Wait. Andrew!” she roars down the phone, and Benjy finally erupts into giggles. Lance is now the one pressing his lips together.

“No, it's really Tim!” I say, shoving my own laughter to the bottom of my stomach.

“I told you I was busy! The project's due in two weeks!”

“Plenty of time,” Benjy says, amid his laughter.

“This isn't a fucking essay!” she growls. “But most of all, that was scary! You're never allowed to give my phone number to anyone.”

“Andrew didn't give me your number! It was Benjy!” I keep up Timothy's voice.

“As if!” he shoves me, and I make a swipe for his hat. “Don't you dare.”

“Aww,” Elaine whines. “Are you stealing his hat?”

“No, he's not,” Benjy says, and I make another go for it, just to prove him wrong.

Lance pats us both on the shoulders, and Benjy ceases his grab for my wrist.

“Let's leave Elaine alone, shall we?” he says.

~*~

The seven thirty am sun hangs in the Hunters' kitchen window, behind a mesh curtain covered in vegetables. I’m leaning against the bench next to Elliot, prodding my almost-solid hair, which is pointing upwards in a glorious fuck-you to gravity.

“Did you see the thing on the news about the civil union bill?” Elliot asks, staring at the marmite he’s spreading on his – ugh – wholegrain toast…

I arch back to try to get a proper look at his expression. He turns his head to me and smiles pleasantly and blandly. Drat! Foiled again!

“I don’t watch the news, silly,” I say, poking his cheek. In distraction, he swipes his knife off his toast and leaves a trail of looks-like-tar-tastes-like-deliciousness over his plate and the bench. He frowns at it, then goes back to spreading. “I heard Mum’n Dad talking about it, though. No points for guessing what they thought.” I roll my eyes. “But…to be honest, it is kinda lame. Marriage and all that crap doesn’t seem to work for het couples, so why would it work for us? I don’t want their stupid convention.” I fold my arms over my chest.

“I guess it’s good for those who do want it, to have the option,” he says, chucking his knife in the dishwasher. “And it might be practical.”

Goddamn you and your logic. “Hmph, practical.” I tighten my folded arms.

His answering smile is so warm, despite (or because of?) the fact that it’s obvious he thinks I’m a silly goose. “It takes it one more step away from forbidden.”

And there it is. My abstract thought laid out in plain English. “Yes! Oh, Elliot, you can see into my soul!” I swing my arms around him and knock my body into his, and one of those movements is probably the reason for the crash. We look down and see that our feet have new companions – chips of plate and marmitey toast.

“Arg,” Elliot says, kicking my shin, then crouching down to gather up the debris. I grab the bin and dustpan from under the sink because I’m helpful like that.

“But…” he says over the bits we’re sweeping into the bin, “do you think it will change people’s opinions?”

What do I say to that?! “Maybe.” I shrug as if the question isn’t as heavy as it is. “Eventually. Not sure.”

“Probably not everyone, though,” he says, and there it is. Neither of us said it out-loud, but we said all the words around it, like cutting out a stencil shape. You don’t need to stick it on a piece of paper and colour the insides to know what the picture is of.

We brush every speck of toast and chip of china out of the gaps between the kitchen tiles, then stand up and dust off our knees.

“Your breakfast may be ruined, but the hour is still early. Let’s steal my mum’s car and go to Burger King,” I say.

He smiles, checks the coast is clear, and kisses me. Sure, he’s paranoid because no one else is awake right now, but kitchen-kisses are a rare and beautiful thing, so no complaints from me.

~*~

“Good morn, farthington!” I say as I jump over the last three stairs and enter the kitchen.

The edges of the sink are laced with soap bubbles, and the pots Mum cooked our dinner in are resting on the bench.

“Hello, Andrew,” Dad says, giving me one of those baffled looks he gets when he’s not angry with me. “Sit with me.” He gestures to the seat next to him at the dining table.

Either he's forgiven me for throwing his shoes in the bin, or this is a new, subtle kind of punishment.

“Err… OK.” I’m too curious to do the whole petty rebellion thing right now, so I do as I’m told.

“Tell me,” he says, his voice and eyes steady, “are there any girls at school you like?”

I feel my face scrunch up involuntarily. “Dad! We don’t need to have this conversation!”

“I think we do,” he says, shifting his chair to face me directly. “Have you ever even had a girlfriend?”

Oh God, I’m going to be tested. Perhaps I won’t make it through. In advance, you were magnificent, Elliot, and it’s been a dream. Maybe you’ll come to forgive me, in time...

“Nope,” I say, unable to trust myself with any more words, lest they morph into more truth than allowable.

“Aren’t there any girls who you want to be your girlfriend?”

“Are you afraid I’m gay?” I blurt out, then clamp my mouth closed again.

He looks shocked. “No, no, of course not!” He pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry, no son of mine is gay. I know that,” he says as if that’s meant to reassure me.

_Don't say anything, Andrew._

“You’re always hanging about with that Elaine girl. She’s pretty.” Ugh, he sounds like he means that!

“Ew, Dad, she’s way too young for you!”

The familiar anger is back in his eyes. “Andrew! You know I wasn’t talking about me! I have eyes only for your mother.”

“Husbands who don’t look at other women don’t look at their wives, either,” I say, waving my finger.

His mouth drops open. “You little - What are you implying?”

“I’m implying that you don’t just have eyes for Mum. I don’t think you’re gay. That’d be way too exciting for you.”

“Being gay isn’t exciting. It’s _wrong_ ,” he forces through his teeth. “Do you know what they _do_?”

I reel back in my chair, repelled by the words visibly hanging on the edge of his lips. “Dad! You’re my _dad_! You can’t talk about that stuff to me!”

“What?” he looks affronted.

“How would you like it if your dad talked to you about…sex?” It feels gross just saying the word to him.

He wrinkles his nose and nods, but he still looks put out, as though he thought he was immune to the age old rule that parents plus sex equals ‘get me a bucket I’m gonna be sick’.

“At least tell me about you and Elaine.” He looks all pleady and I roll my eyes.

“We’re best friends. The idea of going out seems utterly preposterous to both of us. And even if I did like her, apparently I have cooties,” I say, grinning.

“What? She said that?” Dad looks a tad outraged.

I sigh, drooping my arms and shoulders. “Don’t worry; we just like to tease each other.”

“Seems an odd thing for a teenager to say…” He stares at the table, the black lines of forestry on his brow all scrunched up. “Do you think she’s a lesbian? She’s got no father figure, and dresses a bit –“

“Dad!” I groan. “Don’t make assumptions like that! Besides, she’s totally into guys.”

“Okay,” he looks far too relieved, “if you say so.”

“Just out of curiosity,” ugh, I can’t help myself, “what would you do if I _was_ gay?”

“We’d sort you out, of course.”

“You mean ‘fix’ me?” I ask, dread creeping through my body and making me shiver.

“Of course. We wouldn’t just _leave you like that_.” Oh so committed to his fatherly duty, is my dad.

And now I know that Elliot is right. _They must never know_.

“Well! That was a nice chat!” I stand up and pat Dad’s shoulder, my palm cracking against his shirt. “I’m going next door for a bit.”

“Oh, Andrew, before you go,” he says as I make for the door, craning in his chair, “do you want to visit my office next week? To see what it’s like? I could get you out of class for the day.”

Aah… I think I’d prefer school…

“Remember what I did last time?” I say, and I can see an image of me race across his irises on a wheely chair.

He frowns, obviously trying to decide whether I’ve grown up since then, while I swing on the doorframe. “Fair enough,” he says, letting me escape out the door.

I sprint over to Elliot’s house, shaking that conversation out of my head as loose stones clatter between my feet and the pavement. When I batter my fist against the glazed wood of the Hunters’ front door, a grinning Elliot welcomes me inside.

“Good timing,” he says. “I’m all on my lonesome.”

“Huzzah!” I say, galloping up the stairwell and careening into his room. He follows me in and shuts the door, encircling us in white walls, broken only by his drawn curtains. “Nice to be alone?” I ask, tilting my head and giving him a lopsided smile.

“Yes. Yes it is,” he says with deadpan enthusiasm and light frolicking in his widened eyes. He turns those eyes to me and smiles, mouth closed and cheeks dimpling.

No sound beyond the door. Even by Elliot’s standards, we should be safe.

“Better not waste it,” I say, before diving for his lips, his jaw in my hands. He pulls me in by my t-shirt and then lets his hands touch my torso while we collide. I push him backwards until his legs hit the side of his bed, and he flops backwards, onto his puffy duvet.

I clamber on top of him, and before I can press him down into the mattress, he tips me over and rolls on top of me. With our legs kind of kicking against each other, arms wound around us like a coil of wire, we roll back and forth, as though constant movement will make up for the fact that we’re can’t get any closer than we already are. But I’ve still got that tingle just beneath my skin; it might be restlessness or might be something else.

I give myself the lovely indulgence of moaning. I exaggerate it, because I can, and Elliot’s muffled laughter gets trapped in my mouth and tickles, making me laugh, too.

Oof, I’m on my back, his hands and the mattress sandwiching my shoulders. He breaks the kiss, lifting his head and torso, and his weight transfers to his crotch. He’s so warm and my pant material keeps shifting and the inside of my cheek is tingling.

He bites my lip, then nuzzles and sucks at my neck, and his hands slide up the front of my t-shirt.

This. This is different. And magnificent, and…hnnnn…

Okay. Um. There’s air and mattress and no Elliot up against me, and he’s…and he’s lying on his side with his back to me and his shoulders up to his ears. How did this come about? I don’t know and I don’t like it.

“Is everything okay?” My voice comes out high pitched.

“Yeah. Um. Yeah. Let’s just stop for a bit, okay?” He’s breathing hard (though, so am I), and his voice is shaking.

“Any point in asking why?”

“Not really.”

“Alrighty. Be nice to know, though,” I say and rest my cheek against the back of his neck, curling a hand around his shoulder, which hunches even more. Only the wall stares back at me. Damnit.


	11. Chapter 11

The wind in the snowy world seems to be carrying tiny shards of ice, today. Elliot huddles up close to me as we sit on our favourite rock, but the air still cuts through the minuscule space between us.

“So,” I say, slipping my hand through his hair. I can barely feel the strands, my skin is so cold, but they look so lovely and golden in the wan light of the white sky. “What happened yesterday?”

His shoulders suddenly rise a few centimetres and he stares hard at the ground. “Nothing.”

“Let me phrase it another way.” I tickle his scalp, not moving my eyes from his face, in case there’s a chance for eye-contact. “Why didn’t we have sex?”

He doubles over with chokes and coughs, probably milking it for longer than necessary so he can think.

“Is it ‘cause I’m not sexy?” I say in a pathetic voice.

He finally turns to me with an eyebrow raised. “I know you’re not insecure so don’t try to fool me with that.”

“Okay, okay,” I concede, grinning. “But why? Do you think I’m not serious about you?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” he shakes his head. “Look, let’s just not talk about it, okay? It’ll happen.”

“Wouldn’t it be good to talk about it, though?” I put on my best puppy face.

“No, it’ll happen…” Damn your imperviousness!

Well, he does look apologetic, but I can’t help thinking that, if we _did_ talk about it, it might happen sooner…

"I have something to show you." He brightens and stands up.

Please be his dick, please be his dick please be his dick - why is he walking away?

He turns back to me and beckons, and I follow him around a thick patch of trees, their branches scrawling over our view of the flat stretch of snow beyond. In the middle of the field, a jagged piece of ice has risen out of the ground. Wait - it's not jagged - it's it's -

I squeal. Or shriek. I dunno - it's a noise, and it's not pretty. But _this_ is more than pretty!

A castle made of ice, its cone shaped rooves dusted with snow, twirling patterns etched into the walls, and a draw bridge leading over a metre-wide moat, up to two big doors with boughs strung across their handles. The base looks about the size of a bedroom, while the towers extend as high as the trees.

Elliot bundles the sleeve of his grey jumper to cover his palm, then pulls an ice lever by the draw bridge. Cogs start to turn in the translucent bridge, and icicle-tinged ropes set the brigde down and over the moat.

"Where did this come from?" I ask, following him over the drawbridge and glancing down at the still water of the moat as I go.

"I made it." He smiles at the castle, then me fondly.

"How?" I gasp and run up to the castle walls to stare at the curving patterns carved into them.

"Some things are easier in here," he says. "What's in my head just works. When I bring things in from outside, I can work on them really easily in here. They go back to how they were before, when I go home, but I can copy what I did."

"You're still amazing." I trail a finger over the ice, letting it sting a few skin cells off, then follow him in through the doors.

Inside, the ceiling is only just taller than me, and opposite walls are only a few metres away from each other. Dim light creeps through the open doorway, casting a triangle against Elliot's cheek. The air is warmer, and I shrug off my winter coat.

"So," I say, sidling closer to Elliot and tugging at the collar of his coat, "things are easier in here?" His coat falls to the ground in grey rumples. "Are you?"

He laughs, though his face is stricken. "Not really."

"Oh." I pout, and kiss his cheek, then his neck, dipping my fingertips into the sleeves of his t-shirt.

He kisses my cheek, then my lips. We kiss until our legs get sore and we creak down to the ground to lay on top of our jackets. My hands catch in fabric as I rub his torso, and he lets me roll on top of him. He scratches my sides through my t-shirt; I stroke his legs through his trousers, then tear at the material as though my bendy fingernails could rip it. His hands grasp mine while he sends a soothing sound from his mouth to mine, but they're shaking and his grip is too tight. I rock my hips against his, and he presses upwards. And nothing happens. To either of us. My lust is tearing around inside me, but it's shivering inside an igloo.

"It's too cold," he says, placing his hands on either side of my hips.

"It's warm in here," I whine, but drop it and let my head sink to the crook of his neck.

~*~

“Come and give your mother a cuddle,” Mum says from the living room couch, reaching her arms out.

I oblige, sinking down next to her and snuggling into her side. My head on her shoulder jingles her earring. There’s something about mummy-cuddles, there really is…

“Remember last time we went to see Nana?” I ask.

“Yes, your nana is strange,” Mum says, shaking her head, but smiling. “She used to embarrass me so much!”

“Bet you thought you’d get to embarrass me!” I grin.

“Oh, no, I’d never do that!” she says, giving me a squeeze. “I don’t embarrass you, do I?”

“Nope,” I shake my head, and feel her shoulders relax with relief. “I think I embarrass you!”

“Oh, dear, of course not!” she says, but I can tell she doesn’t really mean it. “You’ve always been a handful, but I’d never be embarrassed of you.”

“If you say so,” I say, laughing. I bet she won’t remember that next time I’m running around like a six year old in front of her fancy friends.

The afternoon light is sneaking in between the blinds in front of the french doors, bars of light cream stretching across the carpet and touching our feet. We cuddle for a bit, and it’s oh so warm, like mummy-cuddles are wont to be. I even associate her smell with warmth. She’s soft and cuddly, and sort of squishy like a teddy, perfect for snuggling into and being a kid again.

Elliot doesn’t get to experience this warm, squishy mummy feeling, does he? His mum is cold and bony… And I can’t even provide it, because I’m bony, too! My cheeks tingle and my throat constricts as I stare at my knuckles, bulging out of my thin fingers.

Woah! My eyes are wet. Quite so…

“What’s wrong?” Mum asks, tilting my head up and gasping at my snivelly expression.

“Poor Elliot,” I say, frowning.

“Oh yes,” she says with a sigh. “Poor Elliot. Marilyn was so out of sorts when she had him...but he’s such a nice boy…”

“You like him?” I smile.

She nods. “He’s a sweetie, and always polite. I’m glad you’re spending a lot of time with him.”

I feel more tears welling up as I say, “Thanks, Mum.” It’s lovely, but…I know she wouldn’t feel that way if she knew the truth, and that’s just…just... A sob jolts my body like a hiccup.

“What’s all this crying?” Mum asks, her voice rippling. “You’re supposed to be my cheerful ray of sunshine.”

“It’s not fair!” I whine, burying my head into her side and letting her pet my hair, even though she _always_ messes it up when she does that.

~*~

I sit next to Elliot in the playroom, waiting for the last, icy traces of asthma to leave my lungs and fiddling with the analog buttons on my Playstation controller. While Elliot clicks us through to the menu screen, I nuzzle my nose against his neck, like I’m burrowing into him. Most of the coldness of the snowy world has left him, but the sweet smell of dead foliage lingers. He only laughs and stretches his shoulder down a little, looking briefly at the closed door, so I start kissing his neck.

My controller tumbles to the floor as I clutch his knee beneath his pinstripe uniform. I don't know where his controller is, but his arms have wound around my neck. One hand trails across the back of my neck and to my jaw, fingers dancing, then cupping, then gripping. I lean forward into them, letting them guide me toward his face -

“What? What? What? What?” my brother’s voice barrages through the tingling haze of my thoughts. We break apart and swallow fearfully in unison, backs flattening against the couch. “Ew! God! I always thought – but never actually believed – ugh!”

“Shut up, David!” I jump up and charge for him, kicking at his groin as he dodges me.

“Mum’n dad’ll be _so pleased_ ,” he spits the last word out like the taste of it hurts him.

I can hear Elliot’s breathing getting more frantic behind me. He’s covering his mouth and nose with his hands, breathing rapidly into them. The sound of air tearing through him fills my ears until they ring.

“Don’t tell!” I turn back to David. “Or…or I’ll tell Dad you’re failing Maths!”

He swings his fist out at me and I duck. “Don’t you dare,” he says.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“You can’t do that!”

“And yet I am. _Don’t tell!_ ”

“For God’s sake,” Elliot says, his voice chipped and thin. “No one tell anyone anything. Anyone at all.” He glares at David.

“Yeah, none of your stupid friends,” I say.

“Oh, God, no! It’s bad enough being known as your brother without adding _that_ to it.”

Despite the situation, I have to smile. I’m so infamous that I transcend him with his friends!

“Don’t tell Mum and Dad, either,” I say, breaking out of my celebration.

His mouth twitches. He’s clearly struggling with that. Wants to usurp me as Mum’s favourite and confirm Dad’s low opinion of me, no doubt.

“I’m telling!” he says. “You can’t stop me! And you’re both gonna get _killed_.”

I glimpse his gleeful face for a second before there’s a fist in it. Oh my god, Elliot just punched him. I have the best boyfriend ever! Elliot stares at David, eyes wide, like a baby deer’s. His fists remain clenched and his tendons form ridges along the insides of his arms.

“Fuck!” David holds onto his nose. “Do you think that’s going to make me not tell?!”

I grab his arm before he can run off down the stairs, and Elliot snaps out of his daze to grab his other arm.

“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath, as though this is difficult for me. “If you tell, not only will I tell that you’re gonna fail Maths, I’ll make up a story that will lead them to believe I ‘turned’ gay from _your_ actions.”

“ _My_ actions? What?!” His mouth hangs open and he stops struggling. I can hear Elliot coughing beside me, as though the words he’s just heard are being rejected from his body.

“You know what I mean,” I say, a shadow falling over my voice. “You were only young and couldn’t help it, but it scarred me for life. Ooh, what should it be? Showing me porn?”

“They won’t believe you!” He glowers. But I see his eyebrow quiver and the panic in his eyes.

“Of course they won’t,” I say pleasantly. “Because you won’t tell. They won’t get a chance to believe. Because you’re not willing to take that risk, are you?”

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “Fine!”

“Fantastic,” I say, then shove him out of the room and slam the door in his face.

“Please kill me,” Elliot says, his eyes warbling at me from his blanched face.

“Kill the best person in the world who just punched my scumbag brother in the face?” I take his hands, which still haven’t unfurled. “Don’t worry; he won’t tell. Just in case.”

“So many people know now…” he says, clutching my hands.

“He won’t tell,” I say firmly.

“He will. And you’ll go to boarding school and I’ll be locked in a doorless tower.”

I laugh at that, because it sounds like it should be a joke, but his mouth doesn’t twitch upwards one bit.

“Boarding school? They could never go through with it. Especially Mum.”

“You don’t know that…”

“I’m almost certain,” I say. “But none of it’s going to happen, anyway, because they won’t find out until it’s too late and we’ve both left home and we’re free! So calm down.”

He squeezes my hands, staring at the ceiling, face pure white, breathing sharp, slow and deep.

~*~

Elaine emerges from the girls’ changing rooms after P.E., back in her navy and grey striped blazer and navy pencil skirt. The light overhead draws a line of white across the sweat on her brow, and her lacy, pink clip is pulling her hair out of the way.

“God, I think Mr Greenby wants to kill you!” she says, whacking my arm.

“Aah, yes,” I say, sighing and closing my eyes with a smile. “Gym is another sport I’d be _so good at_ if I just concentrated, did what I was told and _tried_.” I slip into Mr Greenby’s voice as I recite his typical lecture to me.

Elaine laughs, along with Sandy and Danica, passing us with huge P.E. bags slung over their shoulders. We follow them out into the glare of the early afternoon sun and walk past the row of trees separating school from the neighbouring houses. A terracotta roof peeks through the foliage.

“Yes, and you probably shouldn’t salute him like a soldier after your jumps,” Elaine says. “He might cut your arm off if you do it one more time.”

I pout at my arm and rub it in sympathy for the imagined violence. “I’m too special to maim,” I say.

“Of course, of course,” she says. “What do we have next?”

“Let’s skip class,” I jump on the balls of my feet. “Eat lots of lollies, run around a park for a bit, buy heaps of clothes…”

“No, I don’t want detention. Calm down and sit through Maths with me.”

“Oh, come on! Don’t be so lame.”

“No, you come on.” She drags me in the direction of the dreaded B block.

I pull against her, but then Mrs Flenworthy gives us the evils as she enters the building, and Elaine’s grip gets even tighter and her pull gets even stronger.

“Curse ye she-devil,” I complain as I’m wrangled through the door and into the classroom.

All through class, I’m jittery and disruptive, putting my hand up to answer questions with “I don’t know”, making paper aeroplanes to fly over our classmates’ heads, and yelling out random numbers while Mrs Flenworthy tries to count. Mrs Flenworthy gives me a detention half way through the lesson.

“Ugh,” I groan, looking down at the yellow piece of paper telling my parents I’m very bad and why I’m late home from school tonight.

“It’s what you were angling for, wasn’t it?” Elaine whispers.

“Shush, you,” I kick her foot under the table.

She kicks me back, I kick her back, and so on and so forth until she’s joining me in detention-land with an expression that looks a lot like blame on her face. I figure not much more damage can be done today, so I continue to play up for the rest of the lesson, to get my money’s worth. And end up with an extra half-hour on my detention. Oh, man, I though it was a flat rate. I can’t afford this! When am I going to see Elliot tonight?

~*~

Our detention is held in one of the small rooms next to the school hall, where I remember going to after school care a few times. But I bet Mrs Flenworthy won't be getting us to make puppies out of pipe cleaners. She stands before all nine of us (she must have been on a collecting spree, today. Yes. It’s not my fault at all) and tells us, “Today, you will be writing essays on behaving in class. Do not make a monkey of this, or you'll have to re-do your time.” She stares blatantly at me.

“Oh God, I don't have time for that. I've got to do my photography assignment,” Elaine whispers to me.

Mrs Flenworthy’s laser eyes zone in on Elaine and she slaps a pile of papers in front of her.

“No talking,” she commands, so I decide to whisper to Elaine through this entire ordeal.

Old lazer-eye stalks to the front if the room, a wooden wall with no whiteboard, which makes the room look darker.

“Did you watch _Good vs Evil_ yesterday?” I whisper to Elaine as she passes the papers along the row of miscreants.

“Yes! Why the hell did they make Jessie get in between Bradley and Jeff? Everyone knows they're in love with each other," she whispers.

“Shhh,” Mrs Flenworthy’s voice slides under our whispers and just amplifies the hissing sound.

“Jessie’s just a flimsy attempt to make them look straight,” I whisper. “I bet even the writers don’t buy into it.”

“Andrew Cornwall, do I have to put you in solitary confinement?” Mrs Flenworthy says, eyes boring through my skull and leafing through the file named ‘dirty thoughts about Elliot’ that takes up the entire back wall of my brain.

“This isn’t jail,” I say, pouting and folding my arms, but I shut up when she points towards the adjacent room.

So Elaine and I write each other notes for the rest of the time, our pens never stopping, though our essays fail to reach the ends of our pages.

Elaine and the slightly less naughty kids go home at four, leaving three of us left. For the last half an hour, I continue my note correspondence with Jeremy Ingils, who draws me a picture of Mrs Flenworthy being attacked by electric eels. My feet tap in a faster and faster jig under my desk, whlie the wooden seat starts to feel like rocks.

~*~

When it’s finally time to go home, I race out of that hell hole, clutching the note for my parents. I fling it at Mum as I tear through the kitchen, grab a piece of bread and some lollies from the pantry, then race over to Elliot’s.

By the time I get there, the bread has turned into a sharp bubble just underneath my chest.

Rebecca opens the door and her eyebrows tip outwards in worry. “Elliot’s in his room."

“Thanks,” I say, patting her arm with one hand and clutching the other to my indigestion. Now it feels like I’m being stabbed with a knife.

“Elliot can’t have visitors,” Marilyn says, entering the front hall. Her bleached hair is frizzing into a gold scribble. “He has to sit alone in his room and think about what he’s done.”

“Oh, come on,” I say, rolling my eyes, “he’s seventeen. What’ve you got a bee in your bonnet about, now?”

Her eyes flare like the devil is stoking his fires within them.

“He’s been rude and sulky all afternoon. I highly doubt _you_ will be a good influence on him.”

“Fuck that,” I say. “Why don’t you cool your boots and stop picking on him? You’re just… _nasty_ for _no reason._ ”

“Excuse me?” she says, shoulders rising and arms extending outwards in rigid angles, but I’m racing past her and up the stairs. “I’m phoning your parents!” she calls up after me.

I storm into his room, closing door and leaning on it, sucking air in through the dust that's starting to settle in my throat. He looks up from his desk, where he’s been pulling apart…well, I can’t tell what all those bits of metal and wire used to be when they were together. His look of desolation turns to surprise, then joy, then concern when he sees me clutching my indigestion.

"How'd you get past Mum?" he asks, standing and coming over to rub my side, while the stabbing slowly relents.

“Ah, you know. Very tactfully,” I say. “With some swearing and heavy criticism of her parenting skills.”

“You shouldn’t do that,” he says, but his words are swallowed up by his smile. It looks like the smile is going to jump off his face and skip around the room.

“So that's the way to make you smile so much,” I say before giving him a gigantic kiss.

He kinda kills it by pushing me away and saying, “Not here. She’ll probably storm in and start throwing her voice around at any minute.”

And, true to expectation, the door springs open. Elliot steps back so far he stumbles into his desk, but it’s not the witch; it’s Businessman Ken, a black clump of hair swinging over his eyes. He barges in and pulls me by the ear out of the room.

“Ow!” I cry out, trying to release his grip on my ear, but his fingers are almost embedded in the cartilage.

“What’s this I hear about you being rude to Marilyn? And getting a detention!” He adds his voice to the attack on my ear.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” is my only reply.

“You little shit, you’re coming home right now,” he says, dragging me out of the room.

“Noooo!” I cry out, reaching out to Elliot like we’re in a dramatic, tragic movie, fingers splayed over my view of his face.

“Mrs Flenworthy _was_ on the rampage today. As was my mum,” Elliot says, stepping forward a little, then backing up against the desk, again.

“That doesn’t excuse my son’s behaviour,” Dad says without looking behind him.

Still, I give Elliot a thankful smile, which turns into a wince because my ear is being pulled in the direction of the stairs.

Dad drags me like that all the way home, muttering about how terrible I am while I yell things like, “Does this make you feel more powerful?! Because it makes you look pathetic!”

He manhandles me into the kitchen and sits me down on a dining chair, then gets Mum in. While they’re looking me over, as though some physical deformity will explain all of my ‘problems’, David hangs in the doorway, just outside the kitchen perimeter. I can tell he really wants to tell on me, but my ‘yeah, you really don’t want to try that’ look silences him.

Dad finally speaks, his hand over his chin, “You spoil him too much.”

Mum looks tearful. “I just want what’s best for him.” She winds her arm around his.

“Discipline. Maybe boarding school is in order, after all.”

I make a choking sound and rock around on my chair like I've been sent into a delirium. The words 'boarding school' slam down around me, pushing their pudgy letters in my face and stealing my oxygen. I’m _not_ going.

“No, I don’t think we should go that far,” Mum says, and I relax. “He’s just an overexcited boy. He’ll calm down.”

Oooh, David looks like he could murder me. Dad grimaces and swallows.

“Oh, Mummy, I love you!” I declare, lunging at her with a big hug.

“Hold on a minute, young man," Dad says, gripping the back of my collar. "You’re not allowed out of this house for a week. Except for school.” I thought parents only did that in American movies!

“Noooo!” I whine, hanging from his grip and reaching for Mum, who clasps my hand.

“Now, dear, you were very bad. Use this week to calm down and then, _please_ try to be a good boy, won’t you?” Her peaceful tone belies her traitorous words.

“Stupid bumheads!” I yell as Dad drags me by the collar out into the hallway.

I claw at the bumpy cream and gold floral pattern on the stairwell wallpaper and kick at his ankles, but he continues his tramp up the stairs and into my room, then sits me down on my bed. The springs whine and we glare at each other, faces tightening and tightening until Dad wheels around on his heels and stomps back downstairs.


	12. Chapter 12

I am sneaking out of my window. Are you surprised? Because you shouldn’t be. Elliot is only a few metres away from me, and to be shut off from him for an entire day pulls at my skin. My blood cranes towards him, hemmed in on all sides by veins, walls and _parents_.

I’ve climbed out of here before; it’s pretty easy. All you have to do is climb onto the pergola and then down the drain-pipe, then run past the French doors in the living room and hope to dear lord that no one sees you. Even so, I feel like a brave adventurer on a mission to retrieve his beloved from a wicked witch. Someone should make a movie about us.

I make it down to the ground with only one battle scar – a scratch on my arm from a jutting piece of drain. I look in the window as I run past the living room, but no one’s in there, so I dart across the tiles that surround the house.

Now for the hard part. Infiltrating the witch’s fortress. There are vines growing all over the house, but they look like they’d crumble away from the wall if I gripped them. They do have a deck with a metal rail along the edge – yes, I’m going for that route. I have to keep to the periphery because I see shadows moving in the adjacent room.

Once on top of the rail, I reach up for a window ledge above me. My fingertips only just curl over the ridge, and I’m pretty tall. Dangling from the ledge, I have to lift myself up so my elbows are resting (resting is an inappropriate word. My arms feel like they're being amputated) on it.

I wonder whose room it is… I look in, and damn, that frilly purple bedspread is definitely Amy’s. Please please please don’t come in!

My skin slowly scrapes past the window ledge, and I propel myself head-first until my legs are sticking up out of the window and the blood is rushing to my head, which is crammed against her pink and lime green dressing table.

I slide myself all the way in and rub my sore limbs. I think I lost ten layers of skin. Next time, I’m going for the ground floor windows and sprinting up the stairs.

Oh crap, I hear footsteps. I race out of the room and into Elliot’s, flinging the door shut just as the footsteps get louder and faster.

Elliot wheels around in his desk-chair to face me, eyes bulging, then forming into smiling crescents. His mouth wavers, then finally fits around the word, "How?"

“I scaled the tower and leapt over the battlements!” I scarper over to him and plonk myself down on his lap. His desk chair wobbles under us, and he grips the desk to steady it. “AKA Amy’s window.”

“You're insane,” he says, cuddling me tight. Sure, we saw each other at school, but at school we can’t do _this_.

We kiss, and…I don’t know if it’s because last time I was in here I was dragged out by my ear, or because our future dalliances will be restricted for a while, but it’s kind of amazing. Even if I have to bend down even further than normal to reach his lips while sitting on his lap. But this is the most he’s let me touch his lap since that time David walked in, so it’s worth the neck pain.

Eventually, he tips his head down and rubs the back of his neck. I rest my chin on the top of his head and notice the door is slightly ajar, a dark line of hallway showing.

“Whoops, mustn’t have closed it properly,” I say, hopping down from his lap.

“Um,” he says, looking at the door as though it’s about to stab him, while I go to close it, the bolt clicking into its slot.

“Don’t worry.” I lean against the handle. “We’d know about it if someone had seen.”

“You’re right,” he sighs, his shoulders sagging like discarded shopping bags.

He walks up to me, curling an arm around my neck and tracing the line of my necklace, until he reaches inside my shirt and pulls the pendant out. His fingers flicker against my chest for a moment, leaving a shimmery feeling behind. I do the same to his pendant, albeit with a bit more gratuitous skin-touching involved, then we jam the two halves together. The subsequent asthma attack feels like punishment for being careless, but he saves me from it, all the same.

“You forgot to make sure we were lying down,” I scold him.

“So even I can be careless, sometimes,” he shrugs.

He shuffles his foot along the surface of the snow, making an elongated shoe-print. I slide closer to him and plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Now can I smooch you without getting in trouble?” I ask.

He nods, so I take his face in my hands and slot our lips together, pushing his body close to mine to warm me up. We’ve even forgotten jackets.

I mumble things that don’t make sense even to me as he kisses down my neck, and I slide my hands down to his trousers, dipping my fingertips just inside the top of them. For a moment, he does nothing except attack my neck, so I dip my fingers all the way in, but then he tenses up and shoves my hands away, detaching his lips from me.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, resting his forehead against my chest. His voice is shaking and he sounds morose.

“It’s alright,” I say gently, hugging his head.

He breaks away from me completely and goes to sit beside his castle and rub his hands together.

“Hey…” I trundle over to him, sitting by the moat and tugging at his shoulders, because he won’t look at me. “What’s wrong? Are you mad?” I ask, kissing his shoulders, which go _slump_ down.

“No, I’m not,” he says, and I can tell he’s telling the truth, but his lips are pressed together over what else he could say. “Your parents will probably wonder why your room’s so silent, in a moment…”

I pout against his shoulder. “Fine. But, later, you have to tell me what’s wrong.”

“Okay,” he says, like the wave of a hand, fending me off.

He joins the necklaces and I prepare for my usual asthma attack.

It happens with my face against the fibres of the carpet; the feeling of dust in my throat is probably genuine, this time. He crawls over to me and rolls me onto my back, pressing a finger against my bottom jaw to open my mouth and administer the inhaler. Once I’ve regained a clear head, I sit up and give him a big hug, both of us still sitting on the floor. He hugs me back, arms stiff, fingers clinging to my shirt.

“See you later,” I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek, which _has_ to be acceptable in a shut room.

He cradles my head as I do so, and says, “Bye,” softly.

So I climb out of his window begrudgingly and scramble onto the deck, careful not to break a hip before my time. See! I’m careful. Just not excessively so.

I run home and get myself back into my room, then get on the internet, to explain why I’ve been so quiet the whole time, and plug earphones in to explain why I might not have heard anyone. Adam Ant, of course, though it makes me want to sing along.

After a while, Mum knocks on my door, and I swing it open with a smile.

“Hello, Mummy, dear. How are you?” I say, perhaps too happily for addressing the person who helped imprison me.

“Good, thank you. I was just checking on you. You’ve been so quiet for a long time. At first we were relieved, but now we’re worried.” She peeks her head past me and into my room, eyes sweeping over the clothes strewn over the edge of my bed.

“Don’t worry – just been playing on the internet,” I gesture to my computer.

“Oh, you _have_ been good. We may have punished you enough.” She smiles and goes back downstairs.

And I know already – my imprisonment is over. She’ll convince Dad that I’ve calmed down and he’ll believe her until the next smart-alec thing that comes out of my mouth and wish he hadn’t.

Elliot, however, I’m not so sure about. But at least I can sneak to his house through only _one_ window, now.

~*~

Elliot stomps along beside me on the way to school the next morning. He looks like a storm cloud, raging away darkly inside himself until, pshhhhhhh…..someone will get soaked. It _can’t_ be me! I’m too lovely!

“Everything alright?” I ask, cocking my head to the side and watching him rumble along the footpath, the grey concrete booming in time to his steps.

“Yes,” he says shortly. “Maybe. Stupid Amy.”

“What’d the brat do now?” I ask, wincing for his pain.

“She kept trying to trip me up this morning, stole my mobile and wouldn’t give it back ‘till I bit her –“

“You bit her?!” My laughter comes out like hiccups and I clutch my stomach as it spasms. Oh, the things that go on in that house!

“It wasn’t planned,” he says tersely, not even laughing.

“It’s funny.” I poke him in the rib.

He considers me for a moment. “Maybe when my rage is gone.”

“Yes. When your rage is gone, you’ll suddenly shriek with laughter at the memory of biting your sister. Oh, how _dare_ you do it when I wasn’t there to watch?”

Ah! There’s a smile! I grin and prod the corner of his mouth, which makes it twitch up further. Then he whacks my hand away.

“What did I do when I didn’t have you?” he asks, shaking his head.

“As I recall, you shut yourself off to the majority of human contact and broke things.”

“Yeah…I broke something this morning…”

“What was it?” I say, shaking my head like an exasperated teacher.

“Amy’s favourite Barbie… She broke my CD player!” he adds frantically when he sees my raised eyebrow.

I gasp. “She didn’t! How will you listen to my CD when I finally get signed?!”

“Exactly.” He shakes his head.

“She’s always so _mean_ to you.” I frown.

“I know. This morning, even more than usual. I’m getting fed up. Mum’n Dad aren’t going to do anything about it…”

“Youngest children, eh,” I say, shaking my head. “They should all be shot.”

“No,” he says, reaching up to cradle my face and bring it down to cheek-kissing level.

Then he hurriedly steps back. There’s no one around, except an old man across the road and down the way a bit, shadowed by the arch of two trees meeting over the footpath. He's staring at us. Elliot looks like he wants to shoot _him_.

“He won’t tell anyone and if he does he’s probably got Alzheimer’s and no one will believe him and he won’t even know our names or remember what we looked like,” I say, dragging him along by the elbow. His frozen limbs creak as he follows me. My, my, what big eyes you’ve got!

His shoulders are hunched and his eyes are darty for the rest of the walk to school, and this doesn’t stop when I remind him that that’s what all bad guys look like on TV. He keeps clutching his necklace, odd because he usually keeps it tucked under his shirt. The colour is straining out of his knuckles and the chain is digging into the back of his neck, making the skin around it white. You know, whiter than usual.

In form class, he doesn’t even say ‘yes’ when Mrs Flenworthy calls out his name during roll. She has to snap his name three times, laser eyes beaming straight on him, probably giving him UV poisoning, before his eyes float up from his desk and he answers her.

“Where are you?” I whisper to him, leaning in close to get his attention properly.

“Here,” he says, completely unconvincing.

“Come back,” I whisper, pinching his hand.

He jumps, and looks at me. You know, _looks at me_ , and shakes his head like someone shaking lint out of clothes.

“I’m here.” He gives me a weak smile, and I believe him this time.

I worry about him for the rest of the day. Yeah, me, worrying. I feel like such a hypocrite. See what all this worrying does! Just spreads to other people! It’s not fair at all. He should stop. He should smile properly, and he should mean it, because I just want him to feel better!

~*~

Elaine perches on one of the chairs in the Music room, while I stand before her, holding my guitar. Our new song is sitting on the desk next to her, a rhombus of light splayed across it. I squint, trying to remember how to play a G chord. I scrunch my eyes closed, then blink rapidly. There! I've got it! I play the chord. That's not G. I don't know what the hell that's called. 'Falling down the stairs holding a guitar'?

"Um." Elaine stands up, placing her hands over mine and pressing them against the strings. "What's wrong? Jeez, you've even messed up your hair."

I let her run her fingers through my hair. They snag in a clump of hairspray. It sounds like she's wrestling with rubber.

“Elliot,” I whine. “Not happy. Too many people know. Stupid Amy being mean. Make him happy!” I shake her by the shoulders and her hand falls from my hair.

Mr Kentle clops down the row of desks next to ours, his head turning and his eyes squinting as he passes us. Elaine pretends to guide my hands along the frets, as though she knows more than me about guitars. Mr Kentle turns at the sound of Miranda's shrill singing and wheels around in her direction.

“Take his mind off it all, maybe,” Elaine whispers to me over the guitar.

“Ooh! What about Rainbow’s End? Haven’t been there in ages! We could all go.” I say, jumping onto the balls of my feet.

“Yeah!!” she exclaims, then winces when Mr Kentle turns back to us, his lips compressed and wrinkled.

It’s settled. I’m getting as many people as I can to come to Rainbow’s End with us on the weekend, and we’ll have so much fun he’ll forget his woes and maybe he’ll snog me in the log flume, who knows?

~*~

At 7am, I race over to Elliot's house, texting him as I go. He opens the front door before I get to it, and I fling myself at him. He dodges me, even though the house is mute, curtains closed against the particles of light tapping at the windows.

“Ready to run around a theme park like small children?” I ask him as I follow him upstairs and into his room.

“I think so,” he says, smiling in a not-quite-convincing way, but he’s lovely for trying. “You’re here early.”

“Yes, I am.” I pull at his flannelette pyjamas. His hair is puffed up on one side. “I can help you get dressed,” I say in a sing-song voice.

“I’m okay,” he says, looking firmly _not at me,_ his skin lightening.

I kiss him as he backs into the bathroom and shuts himself in there with his clothes so he doesn’t have to brave me all wet and towelled when he comes out of the shower. Damnit.

While I wait, I text Elaine five times, to make sure she wakes up. Finally, he emerges, wearing a dark brown woolen jumper and grey trousers.

"You don't even match! See, you need my help," I say, bouncing over to his wardrobe and pulling out drawers until I find his jumpers. I shove aside his black ones to reveal a patch of light blue material, like a gap in storm clouds. “Here you go!” I say, pulling it out and tossing it to him.

He just catches the edge of it, and smiles. “I forgot about this one.”

He slips back into the bathroom, then emerges wearing the blue t-shirt. It hangs off his shoulders, a size too big.

“Can we please go to the world?” Oh, look at that sweet, forlorn face! How could I say no?

~*~

Somehow, we cram Elaine, Carmen, Nadine, James, Lacey and Dan into my mum’s car, the air seeming thinner as we pick each of them up. Only Elliot, our driver, doesn’t have to share a seat. Elaine’s thigh is pushing mine against the gear stick, and Elliot has to keep shoving me out of the way to get to it.

“Did you hear about Mrs Reebold?” Dan asks, grinning over James’ shoulder.

“No, but we did wind her up pretty good the other day,” I say, turning around in my seat of privilege, beside Elliot, to look at Dan.

“Oh really? Well, apparently, she yelled to another class she hates them and quit!” he says, leaning forwards as much as he can, until the seatbelt cuts into his neck.

“Oh my God!” Elaine says.

“That’s terrible!” Carmen covers her mouth with her hand.

“Why weren’t we in that class?” I lament, and Elaine nods in agreement.

“I know it’s mean, but that would’ve been hilarious,” she says.

“Maybe she’s having, what’s it called, menopause,” Nadine says.

Elliot just smiles and shakes his head with a crease between his eyebrows, eyes on the motorway and its green and white offramp signs. We giggle over possible reasons for her outburst until he delivers us safely to Rainbow’s End. I spy a wavy blond head of hair above the rows of cars in the carpark, and wave at Lance, waiting by his car. Elaine and I run up to him, while the others follow.

“Where’s Benjy?” I ask.

“He’s running late, but he’ll be here in a sec,” he says, playing with his frayed sleeve. Inside his car, the seat covers are just as tattered.

As we wait for him, we watch a tall, thin, multi-coloured rod carry people up…and – down, their shrieks accompanying their sudden descent.

“Will you go on that with me?” I ask Elliot, pointing at its highest point.

He stares at it for a moment, then says, “Yes,” nodding with a determined look on his face. He turns to me and smiles in a way that makes tiny elves throw glitter at my insides.

“He’s here,” Lance says, shoving his mobile in his pocket and pointing down the car park at Benjy’s approaching form. He strolls up to us, hands in pockets, his hat covering most of his curls, though a couple are poking out the back.

“So. Think you can just waltz in here late, do you?” I say, and Elaine pretend-kicks his leg.

“Hi guys, sorry, I slept in,” he says, pulling his hat further on his head and engaging Lance in an I’m-not-gay backslap.

We get in line to pay and go in, behind two girls wearing almost the same outfits – brown shorts that barely cover their bums and white singlets.

“Aren’t they in a year below us at school?” Nadine whispers.

“Oh yeah.” Carmen nods.

“Jeez, you’d think they’d be tired of wearing a uniform all week,” I say, and the others laugh.

The twins turn around and frown at me, and I smile innocently back and point at Elliot, who whacks my arm and shakes his head. Well, at least it’s some public physical contact from him!

When we’re released into the park, I run down the footpath, past the bumper boats and straight for the log flume, and everyone has to follow me. I know, I know, it’s not particularly exciting, but it reminds me of being a kid, and there’s a cave and it’s dark and, yeah, I still want a snog in there.

I grab Elaine and Elliot and get in a log with them before anyone else can follow, leaving Carmen pouting at us from the dock. I sure as hell ‘aint getting a kiss if _she’s_ in the boat with us. We ascend a wooden apparatus, pulleys clicking like old joints, then round a corner, floating into a pond, yet staying on course no matter how hard I push the side. Elaine shoves me from behind, so I dip my hand into the greenish water and splash her.

“No splashing!" A voice booms.

I jump, whirling around and staring across the pond at the cave ahead, a mound of artificial rock, brown paint chipping off to reveal grey at the edges. An opening in the rock is covered by a sheet of water pouring down, and a sign saying _Keep Out_ perches beside it.

“There’s a speaker.” Elliot laughs and points above the cave entrance.

I poke my tongue out at the speaker, and move to dip my hand in the water again, but Elaine grabs my wrists and pins them behind my back.

As the pretend waterfall stops to let us pass into the much-anticipated cave, I find it doesn’t match my memory. It used to have a display of Disney style Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, but they’ve gone and left it a barren shelf of plastic rock.

Elaine lets my wrists go, so I wrap my arms around Elliot’s shoulders. He turns his head to me, light filtering through the water behind us and sparkling on his cheeks and in his hair. I kiss him, and he almost jumps, the log jolting and swaying. He settles and kisses me back, until Elaine coos at us like a teasing six year old from behind us.

Once the log has thrown us down its final slope, we race around the rest of the rides, singing pirate songs on the Pirate Ship and using the ‘word’ ‘arrrr’ in every sentence for the proceeding half an hour, screaming on the Fear Fall (that multi-coloured rod from before) and then insisting that it wasn’t _that_ scary, and throwing Benjy’s hat in the water in the bumper boats (no one owns up to actually doing it, out of fear of his wrath). I get into a war with Elliot in the bumper cars, blocking everyone else’s progress around the track and not really caring. Of course, he wins because he somehow knows how to steer those damn things.

Elaine takes pictures the whole time, while I try to make sure I’m in every one, Elliot tries to make sure he’s in none, Benjy complains and tells her to stop pointing that thing at him, and everyone else blinks in surprise at the flash.

When our stomachs start eating themselves, we go and buy hot chips in bulk. While the others are trying to work out how to best annoy Elliot (instigated by Dan and encouraged by Benjy, the sopping-wet-hatted-one, probably to take our attention away from his curly locks), Elaine drags me aside and sits me down at another table.

“Andy, can we talk about you and Elliot?” she says quietly, putting a hand on my arm.

“Um, okay,” I say, wondering why she looks so serious, for once.

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “You two are really cute together, and I know you’ve been crushing on him since you were, like, two, and it took you ages to actually get together, so I’m not saying your relationship is going fast…actually it’s going quite slow, but you’re so serious and dependent on each other! So I worry about both of you. Maybe it’s my fault. I was working so much on my photograpy project. You couldn't depend on me…” she trails off, frowning at the edge of the table, which has shed almost all of its paint.

“Elaine!” I say, gathering her into a big hug. “You’re an awesome friend and I _can_ depend on you. You shouldn’t be worrying! Elliot and I are going really well. It’s everything else that’s crappy, like parents and stuff. Don’t worry about us liking each other ‘too much’. That’s silly! No such thing! So calm yourself,” I say, holding her out at arms length and smiling at her.

She gives me another hug and says, “Alright, just be careful.” I can’t see her face, but her voice doesn’t sound quite as convinced as I’d like.

I look over at the others and see Elliot shaking his head furiously at what James is saying. I could think of something that’d really annoy him, but he’d probably kill me for it. Or tell the others how to embarrass me. Not that I was embarrassed!!

“I think our plan to cheer him up worked!” I say to Elaine.

“Looks like it,” she says, smiling and walking back to the group with me.

I’m baffled at what’s gotten into her. The rollercoaster should blow those worries out her ears, right?

~*~

We trundle back to my house, a giggling, happy group, ready to sit down and watch a movie or two.

“When Benjy tipped Andy out of his bumper boat…” Elaine trails off, becoming debilitated by her hysterical laughter. “Can’t – breathe!” she gasps, her hand slamming into he cabinet in our entrance hall as she steadies herself.

Lance pats her back while half the group look concerned and the other half, including myself, just laugh with her.

We enter the living room, and all sound of laughter flees, only clothing rustling against fidgeting hands remaining. Lined up along the couches in the living room are the blunt stares of not just my family, but Elliot’s too. All of them. My breathing starts to fill my ears, my head, my whole body. It’s doubled by the sound of Elliot’s breathing next to me.

Mum has a billion tears pouring down her cheeks, while clutching a sopping hanky in a white fist. Dad’s eyebrows have joined together in a scraggly juncture, and seem to be debating angrily with each other. David’s chin is tipped up in triumph. Still don’t understand what’s happening? Let me describe the family on the other couch. Gregory’s eyes keep darting from the floor to us, and his hands might be trying to strangle each other. Rebecca’s eyes are red and wet but her cheeks are dry, and her mouth looks like a balloon that’s going to burst. Marilyn face is pink with such intense rage and hatred, beaming from her eyes, gritting between her teeth and clutched in her fists.

Amy. She’s sitting there with perfect posture, hands folded in her lap, and the most pompous sneer on her face. She looks directly at my face with complete and utter loathing. I’ve never had it directed at me in such concentration before. Sure, heaps of people probably want to punch me or even chop my head off, but _this_ is just unheard of.

“I think everyone but Andrew and Elliot should leave,” Dad says in a good impression of a reasonable parent. They always put that façade on for other people, don’t they?

Elliot and I turn around to say goodbye to the others. Yes, even me. The weight of this…their faces…the realisation, has sedated me somewhat. I don’t know how to rebel my way out of this one.

“Good luck,” Elaine says, hugging us both.

“Is this about,” Benjy points back and forth between Elliot and I, “you two…you know?”

I blink at him, then turn to Elaine.

“No! I didn’t tell him! I didn’t even know he knew!” she protests.

“We both realised,” Lance says.

“Realised what?” Carmen asks.

Lacey looks down at her feet and fiddles with her bracelets, while the others give us confused looks.

“They’re, like, in love, or something,” Benjy says. What. Okay then.

“What?!’ Carmen gasps, tears instantly springing forth. “Oh no!” she squeals and runs from the house, probably to re-evaluate her thoughts on us.

“I don’t think she’ll run away for long,” Lance says in that wise tone he gets. “Good luck in there.”

“Yeah, good luck,” everyone says in an awkward chorus.

They all wave and turn around reluctantly, like they’re being forced to leave us to a wild and hungry polar bear, while Elliot’s expression reinforces that effect.

He leans in close to me and whispers, “Please kill me.”

“Then you’ll be dead and I’ll be in jail,” I whisper back.

He straightens his posture and deletes much of the expression from his face, then walks into the room, while I stride behind him. We stand together in front of our audience, the backs of our hands touching.

“Amy, here, came to us with some interesting information. What she saw upset her very much,” Marilyn says, hugging her demon daughter like she’s an angel who’s been tainted by the sight of a hell orgy.

“I saw them, too!” David says, jumping in on the parent-pleasing.

“Why didn’t you tell us? We could have fixed things earlier!” Dad rounds on him. Oh, so this is how things are going to go…

“They blackmailed me! Andrew said he’d tell disgusting _lies_ about me if I told.” David pouts at the floor.

“Is this true?” Dad turns his knitted brows to me.

“Yeah, what’d you expect?” I roll my eyes. “Obviously I wanted to avoid this.” I gesture to the sorry scene before me.

Poor crying Mum. Stupid crying Mum.

“Look, I’m not an intolerant person,” Marilyn says, while Dad brindles. “But, Elliot, your choices!” She waves her scaly hand at me. “If you want a boyfriend, we’ll help you find a more appropriate one.”

“Now, now,” Dad says, almost rising from his chair. “Elliot’s a nice boy, and this has Andrew written all over it. This is some contrary vie for attention.”

“You’re both gross!” Amy screeches. Marilyn smooths her hair down while she wriggles, socks dangling from her feet.

“ _You’re_ gross,” I yell, pointing to her, and then to all of the others. “You’re _all_ gross and I hate you!”

Just as I so much as think of fleeing, Dad gets up and marches towards me and grabs my arm.

“We’ll run away!” I shout as I strain away from him, shoes denting the carpet.

“We’ll cut off your bank accounts.” Dad stays firm.

“I’d rather starve than live with you!” I say.

Mum blubbers hysterically, dabbing her face in vain with her hanky. “ _Please_ , Andrew, co-operate!”

“No!” I yell, stamping hard on Dad’s foot.

He yelps and lets me go, and I sprint for the door, grabbing Elliot as I go.

“Come back here!” at least two voices yell, but no one comes after us, so I slam the door behind us, rattling the frame, and drag Elliot down the street, since he seems to have become debilitated. Before my asthma can scratch its way up my throat, I slow down. The air feels thick, even outside my lungs, bogged down by moisture that drips from the sun-browned leaves framing the street.

“Where’s the crisis-Elliot that saves me when I almost die from lack of air?” I ask, squeezing his hand.

“I can’t deal with this,” he squeezes back, crushing the air between our hands.

He grabs for my necklace, but I swat his hand away.

“No, we have to deal with this. That place isn’t even real,” I say.

“Just make it go away…” he says, then, before I can respond, “No, it won’t go away; we just have to sit through it and hope whatever they dish out doesn’t kill us.”

“Don’t say that…”

“What else can we do? Only a year more of high-school, then we can afford to move out… What can they do in a year?”

“Maybe we can live with relatives…”

“You have any relatives who’d be willing to take you in and would react differently to our parents?”

“Good point,” I concede. Stupid idea-stomper. “Oh, _fuck fuck fuck_. I hate our parents!”

At the clacking of footsteps behind us, we turn around, jaws tight, hamstrings ready to spring into action. It's Rebecca, jogging towards us with the grace of a show horse.

“Can I talk to you guys?” she calls out.

I look at Elliot, who’s watching her with wide, relieved eyes, so call out, “Yeah, okay.”

We stop our walk and she catches up to us, then stands before us a little like we were before, but with less confidence and up against a much less antagonistic force.

“I’ve put in a good word for you. And I’m behind you one hundred percent,” she says.

“Thanks,” we both say, slightly out of unison. Elliot sounds like his thanks could brim over and swallow the world if he let them, and I’m just relieved. Yeah, even I get tired of the antagonism sometimes.

“They’ve got some real crap lined up for you, just so you know… I really don’t know what you can do about it, but I’m here for you.” Oh, such a strange sentence of support.

I half expect Elliot to suggest a suicide pact. Perhaps just not in front of his sister. Especially the one who likes him. And it’s not like he’d _actually_ think like that.

“Goddamn that stupid bitch!” I yell, and they both turn to me, startled, but unsurprised. “Sorry. But you do have an awful sister.”

They both hang their heads.

“It’s true,” Elliot says desolately. “At least, I hope so. Otherwise there’s something horribly wrong with me.”

“There isn’t,” I say, and Rebecca shakes her head. “Never think that again.” I want to press those words against him and embed them in his soul.

“Okay.” He looks down at his knees.

Rebecca gives us both a hug, folding her warmth around us, then leaves us alone.

We wander the streets around our houses, always moving, keeping a brisk pace, and avoiding the main street, in case anyone with a knife and pitchfork comes searching. It would be a nice walk if the thought of going home wasn't scraping at the back of my brain and Elliot's shoulders would relax. I stomp the dead leaves on the footpath into splinters.

Eventually, we have to go back, or the darkness will breed villains, so we hug at the top of our street as though we're dying, then I sneak back into my house like I'm some sort of quiet person.


	13. Chapter 13

“You’re not coming in here,” Marilyn says, standing before her front door like a guard-dog.

“Fine,” I say, stamping my foot and plonking myself down on the front step, folding my arms.

“Oh, no you don’t.” She tries to boot me away with the toe of her shoe, like a lever under my bum. I make myself as heavy as possible, until the concrete hurts through my trousers, and she eventually gives up with a disgruntled, disgusted sound. “I’m calling your parents.”

Oh _crap._

“Fuck off and die!” I yell as I get up and sling my backpack on, sprinting down the driveway. A plant frond scrapes me as I pass, and I turn to it and yank it off the wall it’s climbing. About a metre of it comes off, and I fling it in Marilyn’s direction with a malicious glare that absorbs her shocked and hateful one, and then I’m off.

What? I had to do _something_ to make up for the fact that I’m…doing what she wants and leaving. Ick.

I slow down to a normal pace, once I’m on the footpath. What am I going to do now? Walk to school by myself? That sucks.

I hear some running footsteps behind me and hope to dear lord it’s not Dad, but before I turn around to check, the footsteps crash right into me, and so does a familiar body. With a familiar face that’s burying itself in my shoulder, and familiar arms that are wrapping right around me and clutching my shirt.

Two public hugs in twelve hours?!

“Yay!” I exclaim, reaching around behind me to pat at him. “How’d you know I was here?”

He dislodges his head from my shoulder to look at me, letting me turn to him, and says, with a wry smile, “I’m pretty sure the whole neighbourhood knows what you think of my mum, now.”

“Same as them?” I laugh.

“Probably.” He nods, smiling and flashing his beautiful, post-braces teeth at me. His eyes have gigantic bags under them, though, and look like they don’t want to be open.

“Did you sleep last night?” I ask.

“I might have, a little bit,” he says. “My brain was preoccupied.”

I nod. “Poor worried Elliot who’s so beautiful and is hugging me in the street.” I kiss him, and he kisses me back, at least for a moment.

When he breaks away, I prod his pale cheek and say, “We have to do that at school.”

He laughs in a way that isn’t conveying amusement. “Oh God,” he says, hand to his head and voice up an octave.

“There’s no reason not to, and,” I frown at the footpath. “We probably can't at home, anymore.”

I look up to see a lump travel down his throat, his lips pulled tightly down.

“We should run away.” I resume my walk to school, and he follows, his shoulder bumping into mine.

His eyes snap up to my face with a panicked look in them. “I’ve already thought about that,” he says quickly. “It’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?” More importantly, _why aren’t you agreeing with me?_ “I’ll just get a job, and you can go to uni! Who needs year thirteen?”

“If I want to get into Engineering, me,” he says, not looking at my face, anymore.

“Oh,” I say, deflating. “Well, you can still go to school, can’t you?”

“And you’d miss out. And what kind of a job will you get? You’re seventeen and have no experience and you’d be supporting _two people_ on _minimum wage_. What’s that? Seven dollars? And where will we live?” His voice is getting higher, warbling and cracking under the strain of his words. “I mean, I love the idea of running away, but, oh my God, it’s just…just…” He peters out, his wide eyes staring at the footpath passing under his feet.

“Don’t panic,” I say, squeezing his hand. Warmth starts to press through my skin and against the cold air, melting it into nausea. “Is that the only reason you don’t want to run away?”

“Yes,” he says quickly, his stare rooted in the concrete below. Lying!!

“Why else?!” I demand.

His eyes refuse to part from the ground. Jeez, I’m almost jealous.

“No other reason…” he mumbles.

“I’ll let it drop,” I say, “ _for now_.” Dun dun dun.

When we get to school, we’re met with Elaine’s red, damp eyes and smothering hugs, and oh my God I don’t think I’ve ever seen her cry. _What the hell is wrong with the world_?

~*~

We come home from school, our hands still glued together by clammy, cold sweat, to find our patents, once again, huddled on my living room couches like a sports team preparing for a match. The beige flowers on the wallpaper seem to be dripping onto them.

David and Amy aren’t here, and Rebecca is hovering around the edge of the group, like she wants to dive in and grab their plans and rummage them around and stick them down with glue all in the wrong places, then run away into the sunset, never to be seen again. It’d be nice if she could do that, but I think their plans are already stuck down with super glue, God damn it.

“We have come to a conclusion concerning what must be done about you two,” Marilyn says, staring at our clasped hands as though they’re two fat cockroaches mating.

“Yes,” Dad says in what he probably thinks is an authoritative manner. “Obviously, you two need to be split up, since you’re a bad influe-“

“No no no no no!” I yell, clamping my hands over my ears and shaking my head until I feel dizzy. Well! It worked when I was little!

I feel soft and slightly wrinkled hands pry mine off my ears. “Now, darling,” Mum says, a tearful warble in her voice. “This is what’s best. I know it seems like we’re being mean, but you’ll thank us, one day.”

“No! You’re just making me hate you!” I yell, and turn away from her, and when she hugs me I don’t hug her back; I just hunch my shoulders. Her touch feels icky now, like her skin is coated in chemicals, because she’s supposed to be my wonderful mummy and she’s being _awful_ and it makes me sick. She’s crying now, but I feel not one speck of sympathy.

When she lets me go, I flop onto Eliot, giving him a heavy hug, and he squeezes me tight. Apart from that, only his heartbeat has moved. What’s in his head? Why doesn’t he react?

“Let’s just get this over with,” he whispers to me, and I straighten up and look into his pain-ridden eyes and really really want to know what he’s thinking.

“Andrew, you’ll be going to boarding school,” Dad says. No surprise there, but that doesn't cushion my falling heart.

“Fuck,” I kick out at nothing.

“Elliot, you’ll be staying with your grandfather," Marilyn says as though he's no relative of hers.

"In Australia?" Elliot's voice is threadbare steel wool.

And now I really really want to hit her and pull all her hair out and cut off her feet and rip her flesh off piece by piece. The rage claws down my throat, making me breathe like a warthog, and now I’m having difficulty breathing at all and, oh dear, I’m dizzy and the floor is hitting my face and, ah, darling Elliot is saving me with that plastic thingy that makes air like me again.

I sit up, breathing in, breathing out, breathing in, breathing out, while Elliot crouches beside me, with his hand on my back. They’re all staring at us, eyes as wide as ours. My fingers dig into the clean carpet and the fibers seem to seep under my nails.

“Isn’t it a bit…extreme?” Elliot says, his voice now flat, like he’s only saying it because he feels like he should, not because he thinks it’ll touch any reasonable spot in our parents’ heads.

"You don't want to keep your grandfather company?" Marilyn snaps.

" _You_ don't want to," he says, plucking at my pant leg.

"What are you implying?" Her shoulders rise.

He glares at her, scrunching my pant leg between his fingers, and I feel like I've been winded. My lungs permit no sound, though I want to yell, growl, anything to scare away that charge of hatred zapping from his glare to her glare. Then cold air presses against me, replacing his hand and side, as he strides from the room and out the door.

Finally able to speak, Dad rises from the couch, hands on hips propping his arms up into a manly pose. “Finish your exams and then it’s all over."

I yell every swear word I know at them before following Elliot outside.

~*~

As Mrs Flenworthy calls the roll, I kick at Elliot's legs under his desk. He looks at me sideways, his fringe falling over the far side of his face. If only I could take him out for a haircut. Maybe I still can, with stealth.

“Elliot Hunter.” Mrs Flenworthy's voice is terse, like this isn't the first time she's called his name.

He turns to the front of the class and blinks. “Here.”

“Really?” she says doubtfully. “Pay attention.”

“Sorry.” He sounds a lot more sincere than he does when he talks to his mum.

Carmen peeks over her shoulder, two rows ahead of us, then quickly faces the front again, as though we're emitting UV rays. Elliot frowns at his desk, so I reach over to it and make my pen dance in his line of vision. A little smirk hooks into his mouth, but doesn't reach his eyes.

~*~

Dad steps in front of me as I head out the door, making me look at his hideous face. The elbows of his navy suit touch the off-white door frame. Our street curves off beyond them.

“Where are you off to?” he asks like I’ve already done something wrong.

“Out,” I say, sticking my nose in the air and trying to flounce past him, but he steps in my way again.

“Where?” I can hear the lid on his temper rattling.

“Out!” I shout, then, “to Devonport,” I say more calmly.

He blinks for a moment, looking like a fish, then asks, “With who?”

“Isn’t it ‘with whom’?” I say.

“Answer the question.”

“With Lucinda.”

“Lucinda.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

“Yes. She’s imaginary.”

He groans and holds his head in his hands. “You…” he clenches a fist and his face goes red, “twerp.” What a letdown. I’m sure that wasn’t the word he was thinking of. “You’re going with _him_ , aren’t you?”

“Him?” I bat my lashes in an innocent fashion.

“I’m not playing this game! You’re not going.” Now that was almost a yell. Wait- what did he say??

“Noooooo!” I whine. “How can you possibly think you need to punish me more than you already are?”

“This is punishment _and_ keeping you away from a bad influence.”

“You’re just being _mean_!”

“This isn’t mean, this is kind!” He sounds like the motorbike he owned before he became boring.

“It's not! It's not!” I wail, bashing my elbow into his waist and trying to dodge past him, but he seems to expand and fill the entire doorway. “You hate me and I hate you even more!”

I sink to the ground, reduced to trying to shove his foot off the doormat, pulling at his tiny black laces.

~*~

Wedged in the corner between the stairs to the sage and the stage itself, Elliot sits, surrounded by his computer and the school’s lighting and sound equipment. His head peeks over the edge of the stage, and he stares at me over that plane of speckled brown lino. His glasses are sliding down his nose, and he shoves them against his face with the flat of his hand. The square lenses trap the light, and I can’t see his eyes anymore.

“Andrew. Pay attention,” Elaine swipes at my red clothed arm, making the pincer covering my hand wobble.

“Maybe I should go help him with those buttons,” I say, craning towards Elliot, but she steps in front of me and grabs my shoulders.

“He's fine,” she says, her firm jaw framing a sympathetic frown.

I sigh and don't look back, scrutinising her bright red wig, instead. The ends are starting to separate from their mold in a frizzy tangle, and we need to cut the fringe.

“Start from scene five,” Mr Kentle says from the seats below us, our only first row audience member. A few cast members are sitting a couple of rows behind him, while the rest are in the makeshift dressing rooms back stage, edging through the narrow corridors and waiting for their turn to practice.

A couple of kids on either side of the stage turn on fans, sending strips of blue material soaring across the stage. Elliot thought of doing it like that. He's so smart. I haven't been alone with him for two weeks. I could run off with him to that side room. Everyone would notice, but who cares? I want more than the swipe of his lips against my cheek, the most he can bare to give me in the hallway.

But I don't. I get into character. Sebastian the crab talks back to Ariel, hemming Andrew and his pining into the centre of my mind.

~*~

Up here, on stage, light reflecting off me and casting a sheen over the audience, I could almost pretend my life feels complete. Even when I remember we’re just in the school hall, and Lillian Fernsby is the one in that electric eel costume.

I peek over to the side, and Elliot, almost hidden by the edge of the stage, is next to the band, watching me, instead of his computer. Something soggy and sad creeps up my insides, so I look back at Elaine, who I'm supposed to be listening to. It doesn't take long to affix an exasperated expression back on my face, but it doesn't sink into my emotions like I feel it should. I'm probably doing a worse job of it than I did at the dress rehearsal last night.

Mum and Dad are in the audience, for some reason. But don't think about them, Andrew. Don't think about how Mum was all excited about it and you just pouted at her.

I make it through the scene without speaking in my own voice, a least, and scuttle off the stage to sulk as I pull the ends of my pincers back up to my elbows. Ingrid Pettersley, a Year 13, pins me to the wall of the hallway and dabs at my eyebrow with a makeup brush.

“It's not the same as dress rehearsal,” she mutters as she scrutinises the rest of my face. “Everyone's sweating so much more.”

“Shall I tell Elliot to turn down the lights?” I ask, my grin stretching my red face paint. She shakes her head.

A couple of clownfish start whispering from further down the corridor, and Ingrid glares at them before turning back to my glossy pores.

~*~

I unwrap Mum’s arms from my torso while she chats to Lacey’s mum outside the school hall. She can boast without a prop. Oh dear. I'm rejecting the opportunity to bask in attention and praise, and extend the applause that burst against the walls of the hall half an hour ago. What has become of my life?

Well, this. Sneaking off to find Elliot, just where I expected, leaning against a white pole by the Science building. He grins when he sees me.

“I would've come and joined your admirers, but your dad kept glaring at me,” he says, coming forwards to meet me. “You were the best crab I've ever seen.”

“Thank you!” I say, wrapping my arms around him.

He hugs me back for a moment, then slips out of my embrace and takes me by the hand, leading me behind the Science building, where only a pohutukawa tree and its circle of thin, dead leaves stand guard. We sit down on a wooden slat bench nearby, and _finally_ share a kiss with saliva and tongue and tactful groping and everything. Okay, so _that_ grope probably wasn't so tactful. His fingernails are stuck in the back of my red skivvy, and my hand keeps sliding up his leg while he shivers and sucks on my bottom lip.

“Andrew. In the car. Right now.” Dad's voice is low, but smashes through our kiss as though he's yelling.

Elliot springs off me, then sits still, as though he's a white statue and none of this is his fault at all, because who'd blame a statue? I just glare at Dad and don't move until he grabs me by the collar and pulls me around the corner, my shoes rattling through the gravel path as I try to dig them in. He plants me against the wall, then stalks back to Elliot. Crap!

I hurry back to them, then catch what Dad's saying and freeze.

"Look, Andrew's not gay. He's just trying to piss me off. You, I'm not sure about. And I'm not blaming you! Your parents aren't the best role models-"

"They're your friends," Elliot says, the marble stillness cracking off his face to reveal anger.

Dad stiffens and recoils.

"You're happy to have them over for dinner, and say nothing when they treat me like-" Elliot screws up his face and stomps at the gravel, his fists balling, then opening into claw shapes. "So you can feel smug, or something? Like you're the best father in the world? You dismiss everything Andrew does as disobedience!"

He stops, shoulders jolting, and stares at Dad in shock. As Dad opens his mouth, Elliot's eyes widen, then he runs off, around the other side of the Science building. I run up to Dad and grab his perfectly pressed cuff, pulling him away.

“Why are you so mean?” This time, it's my turn to pull him around the corner while he remonstrates in that 'authoritative' manner he gets, stumbling into me and stepping on my foot.

When he's calmed down, Dad says, "That boy's got anger issues." He turns to look me in the eyes. "Are you sure you want to date someone like that?"

"That was a normal reaction to you being an asshole," I say, releasing his cuff and stomping off to find more pleasing company.

~*~

My body jolts and my spoon falls back into my chicken soup at the screech from next door. An inhuman screech of rage that could only have come from the wicked witch who wants to ruin everything good in the world. There's a yell in response, a beautiful voice contorted by rage, and the witch yells back. I glare at Mum and Dad over the dinner table.

“Why did you side with _her_?”

“Obviously, we don't agree with _this_ ,” Dad says, setting his own spoon down.

“Well, you're partly to blame.”

“Look. I've talked to Gregory about it three times. He always shuts me out. What am I supposed to do?”

More yelling, and a door slams next door, startling me as though it was slammed in my face.

“You can not make things worse – that would help!” My voice rises.

“Dear,” Mum buts in shakily, reaching over to clasp my wrist, but I swipe it away from her and screech my chair away from the table, leaving my spoon to sink into my uneaten soup.


	14. Chapter 14

It’s the last day of classes before study break, and the first day of exams is in two weeks. Sitting next to Elliot in our form room class, I watch Waverly flip through an exercise book with so much force she rips one of the pages out. Are those tears?

Elaine storms through the door and plants her hands on my desk, making half the room shake.

“Jeremy Ingils just called me your fag-hag! Like I’m your appendage!” she says, clawing at the carvings in the desk top.

“There there,” I say, patting her arm. “Just assume it means he’s secretly gay and imagine he’s having hot sex with another guy.”

She pauses. “Thank you for putting it like that,” she says, red splashing up her neck and to her cheeks. “So,” her eyes fall to the space between Elliot and I, “how’re you two?”

Elliot gives her a look that says, ‘Miserable, but thanks for asking.’

“What he said,” I say. “But with less brooding.”

“I’m not brooding,” he says, pouting and nuzzling his forehead into my shoulder.

“Ugh! Get a room!” Liam Agless calls out from the other side of the classroom.

“Shut up, Liam, you stinky pile of llama faeces!” Elaine yells back.

“Just ‘cause you’re the only one who can bear it!” he yells, getting up and stalking over to us. Of course, the gaze of the whole room follows him, our classmates looking like spectators at the coliseum.

“Go back and sit down,” Elliot says, a buzz of tension shaking his voice.

“And you,” Liam turns to Elliot, striking his chin into the air, “I would have thought better of you. You’re as _sad_ as you look.”

“Fuck off llama-faeces,” I say, throwing a pencil at him.

“ _You_ fuck off. You and your _boyfriend_ ,” he sneers, shoving Elliot’s shoulder.

Is it bad that I think Elliot’s enraged face looks horribly sexy?

“But, I did hear you _are_ fucking off, aren’t you?” Liam continues. “Have fun in Australia.” He shoves Elliot again.

Why the hell is he picking on my lovely Elliot? I arise from my chair like a knight about to fight for his beloved’s honour, but…is that a fist in Liam’s eye? And it’s not mine? Oh! It’s Elliot’s! And now Liam’s punching Elliot in the ear and Chrissie Valence is squealing and everyone’s surging in to get a better look and Elliot and Liam are on the ground and Elaine’s stamping on Liam’s leg (is it me, or is she aiming for his crotch?) and I’m trying to drag Elliot away but it’s kinda difficult ‘cause he’s got one hand around Liam’s neck and his teeth in his shoulder (who cares if boys aren’t allowed to bite when your main fighting partner is a seven year old girl?), and Liam’s-

“What on Earth is this ruckus!?”

Holy crap, it’s Mrs Flenworthy.

Elliot gets one more punch to the stomach and Liam gets another almost-gouged-eye before they fall apart, chests heaving and eyes unfocused.

“To the principal's office,” Laser-eye almost yells, pointing out the door.

Elliot gets up and out of my arms that have somehow clamped themselves around his shoulders, and shuffles out the door after Liam, looking…not quite here. I want to go, too, so I yell out swear words while Mrs Flenworthy calls the roll, but she just tells me to settle down. Stupid teachers. Even the mechanical ones are faulty.

Everyone else whispers about how they saw angry Elliot today, as if he’s a mythical creature. To be fair, Elliot hasn’t exploded at school since Year 6, and it did leave a big enough impression for everyone to learn not to bother him. Looks like Liam forgot. I mean, llama-dung. Gotta make that nickname stick.

~*~

After Maths and French, in which I get so many answers wrong that Mrs Winkle thinks I’m going to fail my exams, I forgo my morning tea break and sneak out to the principal's office. I poke my head in through the door, where I see him sitting on a white couch in the waiting area. The secretary is away from her desk, so I creep in and sit beside him.

“What's the verdict?” I whisper.

“We had a big talking to, and now I'm waiting for Mum to pick me up,” he says, grimacing.

“Oh no!” I wrap my arms around him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, leaning his head against mine. “I wasn’t thinking, and now I’m so embarrassed. Not that he didn’t deserve it.” That last bit is through clenched teeth.

“Don’t be embarrassed!” I say. “ _I_ thought you were magnificently hot.”

He choke-coughs. “Yeah, that’s not going to make me embarrassed,” he mumbles sarcastically.

Another face appears in the doorway, cheeks red and eyes brimming. Carmen. She darts in and sits on Elliot's other side.

“Elliot, I’m sorry! I love you and I don’t care whether God loves you or not!” she half-yells, flinging herself at him and snivelling into his shoulder, and I have to release him from my own hug.

He jumps in surprise, then his face softens and he pats her shoulder. “It’s alright,” he says.

She leans back and looks up into his face, saying, “I’m just going to have to do a bit of thinking about this, but the consequences of that won’t make a difference to our friendship!”

“Just don’t try converting him to the straight-and-narrow,” I say with mock-menace.

“Andrew!” she squeals, launching herself off the couch and at me, as if she hadn’t noticed I was there.

“Carmen!” I match her volume and clamp her between my arms and my torso, standing up and lifting her off the ground, while Elliot laughs.

“What are you two doing in here?” the secretary emerges from a cupboard behind her desk and waves a sheaf of paper at us, shooing the jubilation out of the room.

~*~

I walk with Elliot to school, the characters from Othello and whatever else we studied in English only half filling my brain. Sure, our exam is starting in an hour, but Elliot and I haven't walked together since school ended. He looks like he hasn't slept since then, judging by the bags under his eyes.

“Rebecca's going to Auckland Uni, next year,” he says, angling his face slightly away from me. “She wouldn't be able to get a student loan in Australia.”

Tension jolts up my spine. “Oh no!”

“It's okay. I’m just glad she considered it,” he shrugs, and bites his lip. “Do you think we'll get to go to the world before..?” he trails off, his eyelashes fluttering as he blinks at me.

“We can try...” I kick flecks of stone across the footpath. “It'd be easier if we ran away. I’m not going to give up on that idea. Especially if you won’t give me a proper reason why you won’t do it.”

“I have,” he says weakly.

I purse my lips and try to look at him piercingly.

His mouth presses into itself and he turns to me, wide eyed, then scrunched eyed, and says, “BecausemyparentshatemeandifIrunawaythenthey’llalwayshateme.”

“Oh.” My stomach lurches. I can’t argue that one away or dismiss it as nothing. “It’s only a year,” I say, my neck slackening and my head drooping.

None of the billions of things I think of to say during the rest of the walk seem appropriate, so I find myself as silent as he is, while the footpath sends its heat through the soles of our shoes. When we get to school, we find our classmates waiting outside the exam room, their hair sticking up and half out of their ponytails.

“Have you studied enough? Have you studied enough? Have you studied enough?” I say rapidly, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

“No!” Carmen wails, banging her head against the wall.

“Shush, Andrew,” Nadine says from behind her text book, propped up against her knees as she sits against the outer wall of the English classroom.

“Ooh, cramming now’s not gonna do you any good,” I say, earning me a glare from Nadine and a kick from Elliot.

Inside the exam, the clacking, clicking, scratching, flapping and sighing are too constant to notice, until I get bored of the page in front of me, and then they’re the most interesting sounds I’ve ever heard. Especially that sigh from Elliot. I turn to look at him, beside me, whilst attempting to not look like I’m cheating. He looks up and our eyes meet for a moment. Then he bites his lip and stares at the page in front of him like he can will the right answer onto the page.

~*~

I’ve just finished my last exam, which also happens to be Elliot’s last exam. It should feel like we’ve been sitting in the same cage and the doors have been flung open, but…well.

We’re sitting at McDonalds, eating the biggest pieces of meat they sell, and I’m watching Elliot stare at the table as though his glasses are broken.

Then he looks at me intensely and says, “I think I’d rather die.”

Oh, yes, darling, I know I wanted to know what you were thinking about, but could you please not be thinking _that_?

“No one’s dying,” I say, shoving my burger back into its box. “We’re getting through this year, and then there’ll be nothing as horrible as this, ever, and everything will seem so much easier by comparison.”

“It’d better not get worse,” he grumbles.

“It can’t! After next year, we can move out and do what we want. It’ll all be a piece of cake.”

“No – there can’t be anything worse. You’re right. Let’s just…get through this. It’ll be fine in the future. Yes. The future,” he mumbles, half to himself.

I don’t like the empty look his eyes are getting. Sometimes they’re so intense that it’s just as scary, but I prefer them that way. The way that shows what he’s feeling. Shows that he still feels something about me. I know, I shouldn’t be insecure about what he thinks of me. He’s clearly besotted and the idea of leaving me makes him want to die, but still. That empty look. I don’t like it.

“Let's go and see if we can sneak into one of our rooms,” I say. “Then, maybe we can go to the world.”

I don't know what made me say that, but he's smiling, so I guess it was the right thing to say.

“Yeah, alright. It'll be nicer without all these people around,” he says, gesturing to the other cubicles in the restaurant, full of people shoving fries into their faces and a group of kids tipping salt into each other’s hair.

~*~

When we get to our street, the windows in his house are black and still. He doesn't even speculate about what his entire family might be doing without him. He just leads me up to his room and lies down on the bed with me. As our chests connect, the necklaces slot together on their own, frightening the air out of my lungs.

“I didn't do that on purpose!” he says, putting the inhaler into my mouth and shuffling his feet into the snow.

“I know,” I say when I can breathe properly. “But you want to stay here, right?”

He nods, so I plop myself down onto the ground and bury our legs in the snow as though it's sand at the beach. I find rocks and dead leaves amid the white snow, like shells and pebbles. He helps me decorate my mound with these treasures, until our legs erupt from it, shivering and aching like our skin is too tight. So we go back to our bodies in the real world and warm them under the covers of his bed.

The house is still silent, apart from the rustling of his sheets.

“You can stay until we get caught,” he says, his breath hot compared to the cold cheeks between my hands.

“In your bed?” I ask hopefully.

He nods, his face losing all of its colour, until I'm half certain I've brought a snow-Elliot back to the real world, and the real him is still buried in snow.

I kiss him before that embarrassment raises a white barrier between our bodies. His mouth opens instantly and I’m half sure it’s a ploy to make me not notice the way he’s scrunching my hair in his hands, but I _do_ notice…and…I totally don’t care because my tongue is in his mouth, and…and…there are other ways I could be inside him, and don’t bother telling me there are other thoughts to be had because there are not!

What what wait! He’s just pushed me away and rolled onto his back before I even knew what was happening. His pale face is making his strawberry-blond hair look almost ginger.

“What’s wrong?! Come on,” I plead, trying to pull him by his shoulder back round to me. “This seems horribly familiar.”

“You know I’m sorry,” he says to the ceiling. His voice is shaking.

“You’re still cuddling me, though.” I snuggle into his shoulder and wrap my arms around him.

“Yeah,” he says, turning back to me and clutching me around the waist.

~*~

I’m pretty sure I fell asleep mid-snuggle, and now I’m blinking lint from his t-shirt out of my eye.

I look at the three suitcases lined up against his wardrobe, with bumps pushing against their seams and zips. They seem taller than even I am, even though I know they’re shorter than my waist. Tears travel down the side of my face and onto my pillow, and I look up at the ceiling, but that white blankness above us pulls a sob out of my chest.

I feel a kiss on my hand and turn to see I’ve woken Elliot up. Didn’t realise I was that loud. He’s got tears in his eyes and, I know it’s wrong, but it’s just wonderful to see them because he’s usually so reserved about that. They’re like deep-sea pearls that humans aren’t likely to ever see, down where the pressure would crush their skulls.

He wipes mine away and gives my cheek a kiss, then covers his face with his hands to wipe his own away.

“Don’t cry,” he says. “Makes me want to cry, too.”

“But I feel like it,” I say, more tears replacing the ones he’s eradicated.

“Why would you ever feel like crying?”

“Because I’m sad…”

“But-“ he stops and stares up at the ceiling, eyebrows pushed into each other.

I roll over and cuddle him tight. He smells all sleepy and warm and blankety and it’s nice.

“Don’t leave me for some boarding school boy,” he says.

“Course not!” I say as if affronted. “Don’t you leave me for some Australian boy, either.”

“No way. I bet I won’t meet anyone I like there.”

“Course you will! You’ll make friends, but not good enough ones to make you think twice about moving back here, first chance you get.”

He sighs. “Maybe.”

“Jeez, you won’t with that attitude.” I prod his cheek, then kiss it, then his mouth, and what were we talking about again?

We lie there until 9am, which is pretty unheard of for me, and my hair is a mess when we go down to breakfast in yesterday’s clothes. I’m not used to being all soft and creased down in the kitchen, especially in someone else’s house.

Marilyn bustles into the dining room and glares at us when she sees us at the table with our cereal.

“What are you doing here?” she says, swiping my bowl out from under my face, milk sloshing onto the placemat.

“Hey!” I whine and reach out for my rice bubbles.

“Out,” she commands, pointing at the doorway, and I don't move until she whacks my shoulder.

I make the telephone symbol as I'm shoved out the door, breath catching when Elliot gives me a sad little wave.

~*~

“We’re leaving the house in four hours and fourteen minutes,” he says when I call him.

“I’m coming to the airport with you,” I say. “I don’t care if I have to hide in your boot.”

He smiles. “Then…six hours and four minutes. That’s when the plane boards. You can stay until then, probably… How will you get home?”

“Never you mind that, dearest! I’m sure there’ll be a bus. Or I could just call mum and she’ll come. Wouldn’t want me stranded at the airport, would she?”

He comes over and we spend the next four hours and fourteen minutes wandering around our neighbourhood, talking and kissing. I sing him a song, and his smile is like a sunroom at the wrong time of day.

When we trudge back over to his house, my eyelashes start to get wet again because Gregory is loading Elliot’s suitcases into the boot of their car. Marilyn’s wrinkled witch-hand is clamping around Elliot’s arm and yanking him into a taxi, and I follow like there’s a chain connecting us together, until she slams the door closed between us. We’re lucky she didn’t crush his leg in the process.

In answer to his horrified expression, I whip out my cell phone and start calling another taxi, my grin belying the anguish that’s threatening to spill out of my eyes. Whoops, there it goes.

When I catch up with them in the airport, Elliot has a scratch on his face, Amy has a ripped sleeve, and Rebecca’s eyes are all red and puffy. Hm. I forgot that she’d be pretty much in the same situation as me.

And now Elliot and I are glued at the hand again. We stay together in relative silence while we find a seat in the waiting area. I try to strike up conversation a few times, but he’s not very responsive and it seems a bit stupid, anyway. So I just sing cheesy love songs by ABC while he sits with his head on my shoulder.

We hug so hard I can feel his cheekbones and browbones digging into my shoulder, and…is my shoulder wet? His lips crush against mine before I can get a glimpse of his face. Are we kissing in public?!

It should be nice, with him connected to me like this, unashamed, but I can feel the future pressing down upon my skull, trying to wrench us apart.

Two minutes to go. CRAP. No no no no no no no no no no no….

He’s walking backwards with a panicky look on his face, one arm dragged behind Marilyn, and my head feels like it’s going to explode and I burst into tears and run up and kiss him so hard that _everything_ feels like it’s going to explode and then he’s gone.

I sit on the floor and cry for a bit and people stare and some look appalled and some look sympathetic, and now, for some reason, Mum is here and she’s picking me up and leading me over to her car and wiping my tears away so I make more on purpose just to spite her.

~*~

I trudge into the dairy and stare at the row of lolly jars, their dull gleam sending no shiver of joy into my heart. The shelf full of cookies do nothing for me, either. Even the chocolate covered chocolate cookies with chocolate fudge in the middle. So I turn to the freezer full of iceblocks and icecreams. They always give me a cough, but the idea of that is a little nostalgic. Maybe I'll get to use my inhaler.

I buy a vanilla icecream covered in white chocolate, and munch on it as I wander the streets near my house, never getting too close to my own street. The air starts to cough its way out of my lungs, forcing itself through narrowed airways, but no wheeze comes. Which is probably a good thing, because I've left my inhaler at home. Even the one Elliot gave back to me and said I had to keep with me at all times or else. I'm such an idiot.


	15. Chapter 15

“I am afflicted! I am oppressed! I am on the rack! I am a martyr! I am languishing! This is my Gethsemane! I shall not be stoic in the face of my tribulation! I shall repine! I shall expostula-“

I am deprived of my words as Elaine wrestles her reverse dictionary out of my hands and whacks me on the head with it. It’s big. It hurts.

“You’re persecuting me, too!” I whine and try to grab it back. It’s supposed to be helping me write a song…like that’s going to happen right now.

“Wrong word. I think persecution implies the mistreatment is unjust,” Lance says from his stool near Benjy’s drumkit.

I make a pitiful noise, Elaine raises her hand against me and I wince, but she only pats my head. She even makes sure not to mess up my hair. Not that I did much with it this morning.

“Poor ickle Andykins,” she says, letting me rest my head on her shoulder.

“Will you be my new mummy?” I ask.

“No,” she says gently. “But we can see if Benjy and Lance will adopt you.”

I snicker as Benjy yells, “No!” and Lance screws up his face.

“I’ll let that one slide because you made Andy laugh,” Lance says, raising his hand in a despairing wave of dismissal.

“Like hell you will!” Benjy chucks a drumstick at Elaine. And then he only has one and we laugh at him.

~*~

My mobile is ringing (if you’d call blaring out Brandon Flowers’ mournful voice ringing). I heft my head off my pillow, my neck straining under the weight of all the sorrow stuffed in my skull. I grab my phone off my bedside table. Why does this number have so many digits in it? Eh. My hand flops back onto my bed, and the phone tumbles over the fold of my duvet.

Waaaaiiiitttt…

Long number = foreign area code.

_Oh my God._

I’m pressing the talk button and clamping the phone to my ear and gasping gasping gasping because if it’s not him I will _die_.

“Hello?” I say sounding like I’ve just won a marathon.

“Hi.” Elliot's voice is simmering with barely concealed excitement and, oh, it’s _his_ voice. His his his his his!

“Elliot!” I half shout, half squeak.

“Shush,” he says, but he’s laughing as deliriously as I am. “Don’t let the whole neighbourhood know I’ve phoned you.”

“But I’m so happy!”

“Happiness can be quiet.”

“Not this kind!”

I hear a creak on the stairwell and jump up and shut the door.

“But…I’m closing the door, just in case.”

“Good plan,” he says. I can hear exasperation in his voice, but it’s mostly overwhelmed by his excitement. "I have to be careful. Granddad's out in the garden. If he comes back in, he's gonna ask why I'm on his phone."

"He'd care?" I ask.

"Well. To give you an idea, one of the first things he asked me was if Dad still can't control Mum."

"Um..." I pull at the hair on the back of my head, where it had flattened against my pillow.

"This is going to be fun, hmm? He thinks I've been influenced too much by the dragon."

“I think of her more as a witch, actually…" I scrunch the front of my shirt, "locking you in a tall tower and making you scrub her floors. And I’m Prince Charming. I come and whisk you away and we ride off into the sunset on my noble steed.”

He bursts out laughing so hard it almost sounds like hiccups. I can’t help but laugh, too, even though he’s laughing _at_ me. It kind of ruins the afflicted tone I put into my voice. “You don’t like my fantasy?”

“Oh, I do!” he somehow gets out in between laughs. “It’s just…so…” And he’s laughing outright again, until he manages to quell it to a soft snicker. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m just happy to hear you laugh,” I simper.

He makes a combination between a short laugh and a grunt, and I imagine his eyes are looking down at the ground, even though my eyes aren’t there to try wrangling contact out of them.

“I miss you so much already. How’m I going to last a year?” I say.

"I don't think I can." His voice ripples with certainty, and I sit up straight, clutching my knee.

“But how’s Australia? You know, apart from being me-less.”

“Um…it’s really hot,” he says, displeasure staining his words.

“Are you getting all sweaty and are your clothes sticking to you?”

He coughs. “Maybe…”

“That means you don’t want to say. And I shall assume that’s because you’re too embarrassed. Which means yes. Lord knows why you’d be embarrassed of such a beautiful image!”

“Beautiful?” he scoffs.

”You know I think you’re hotness, right?”

“I don’t know… Does it matter that much?”

“If I don’t think you’re hot then why’m I going out with you?!” My voice is getting a hysterical tinge to it.

"Crap!" he squeaks. "Granddad's coming back. I'll talk to you later; I miss you so much; bye!"

Click. Beep beep beep.

~*~

I’m about to swan my way into the living room when I hear Dad’s voice barrelling through the door.

“You should never have read him those Oscar Wilde stories when he was young. They’ve clearly had a bad influence.”

My mouth drops open and I stop behind the door, resting my back against the wall. I knew Dad was stupid, but this is a bit much.

“Oh, Chester, don’t say that. They were lovely tales and had nothing sordid in them.” Mum whines in her soft voice that used to be so lovely to sink into, like her cuddles, but now, but now…

“I wonder if there was something subliminal in them…” Dad says.

I bite the back of my hand and slide down the wall, feeling like my eyes are going to pop out of my skull. The embossed wallpaper scratches against my t-shirt. I would laugh, but I want to know what they’ll say next, so I try to breathe deeply and evenly and expel the burning feeling from my chest.

“You’re too soft on him, that’s what,” Dad says.

I hear Mum’s voice crack and whimper. “I don’t want him to hate me! Look how hostile he is towards you! No wonder he didn’t feel like he could talk to us about this.”

“Of course he didn’t talk to us about it. He doesn’t respect us. He wants the opposite of what we want, every time.”

I resent that. Yes, their disapproval makes things more attractive, but I did use my own brain and followed my own will.

“My feelings for Elliot are real, damnit!” I yell at the top of my lungs. Don’t care what else they have to say.

They don’t follow my stompy feet upstairs. I hope they’re ashamed, or at least embarrassed.

~*~

I sent a letter to Elliot today. Can’t remember what it said – a lot of rambling about missing him and hating the tyranny of The Parents and some funny things my friends said. And I drew a picture of a hairstyle I’ve been unsuccessfully trying to create. He’ll probably think my taste has rusted away in the rain of my tears, because I had even worse luck creating it in pencil than in hair. Elaine’s better at drawing than me.

Sliding the envelope into the red and white post box didn't still my restless limbs or make me want to do anything productive, though, so I'm wandering the streets again. When I get to a park, I kick at the swings, making them jostle in all directions. A little girl watches me, eyes narrowed, daring me to mess with her precious swings. So I pull at the rubber, but it's too thick and tough for my bare hands. I shove it away from me and walk home, not sure if I intend to go inside.

~*~

My desk chair shudders and wobbles under my slouch. I stab the on button of my computer and scrub the mouse along the mouse pad until the desktop emerges, squinting in the light seeping through my net curtains.

I plug in the modem and dial up without checking whether anyone's on the phone. Its screech overrides the muffled voices downstairs. Eventually, I get my inbox onto the screen and sort the spam and chain letters from the emails. Six from Elaine... Oh my god! Elliot!

I click on his name and wait for what are surely the beautiful words, 'I have internet access' to appear on my screen. The page loads, and I swing back in my chair, letting my hands graze the carpet and smiling in the glow of hotmail's pixels.

Hi Andrew,

I found a good internet cafe - it's a thirty min walk from Granddad's house, 50c for half an hour. There are seventy emails in my inbox. I'm not sure how that happened. Maybe I'll just delete them all, or it'll clog up the space. Need free space so we can email each other!

Now I'm sitting here, using up my pocket money, I'm not sure what to write. Maybe I should go visit some touristy things so I can describe them to you. Apparently Melbourne has lots of culture.

Granddad leaves all the doors open, then leaves blow into the house and he gets really mad. It's funny until he makes me sweep them all up (even the outside ones) in an attempt to fitten me up. I don't think it's an efficient workout. Maybe he just wants me out in the sun so my skin goes orange like his.

I hope you're having a nice time back in NZ. I wish I was there, with you, with everyone, especially you. I even miss Mum because I'm so mad at her but I can't fight with her - it's frustrating. And Granddad is just as nitpicky.

I miss you so much.

From Elliot

I keep scrolling down the page, but there's no more, so I read it again. What do I say back? I should read it again. The white glow around the black letters burns onto my retinas, and the words hang there in front of my view of my clothing-heap of a room. I poise my hands above the keyboard, then write a stream of consciousness letter about god knows what.

~*~

The sun feels like it's blistering my skin, no matter how much sunblock I put on. And then it melts into my eyes, and makes them sting, and I look like I'm crying even when I'm not. Usually, summer is my favourite, but no points for guessing why winter's now more appealing.

Here, at the ice rink, I feel a little calmed. My limbs feel lighter, and the whoosh of air past them is far more satisfying than when running. Sure, it feels like ice crystals are growing in my throat, and I keep fantasising about holding Elliot's hand while he hobbles next to me and pulls me towards the safety of the wall. Maybe I'll go help Carmen, who's clinging to the rail by the entrance while her skates slice haphazardly through the ice.

I speed up to her and stop myself by crashing into the wall. She jumps and stares at me, distress stretching her frown.

“Want to hold hands?” I ask. “I can take you into the middle.”

“You'll go too fast!” She clutches the rail tighter. “And Lacey already promised me.”

She points across the ice at Lacey, who may be at least two metres away from the wall, but her arms are splayed out at awkward angles and her legs are trembling.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “I won't go as fast as you think.”

“No, you have fun,” she says, and starts to edge along the wall, her skates making determined straight lines beneath her.

“Okay, watch,” I say, and spin away from her and into the middle of the rink. I dash through the nearest empty space, stop abruptly, and speed back to Carmen, stopping right in front of her.

She squeals and holds up her hands, then her eyes unsquint and widen, her fists clamping to the rail like sockets.

So I circle the rink with the others, lapping everyone while almost tripping over a small child and my own big feet. I rush past the air so fast that it feels like wind. I'm in my own tornado, that only I can feel, and the people are whirling, the walls are whirling, the ice is whirling, the air is whirling around me. Around and around, and up, why is everything spinning up?

I skate my way over to the wall to catch my breath, and catch is exactly what it does, in my throat, only a little managing to rasp its way down.

My inhaler! I brought my inhaler! I pull it out of my pocket, just like he used to do, and shove it into my mouth. The puff of Ventolin is bitter, but I don't care – it tastes better than lollies – better better better better!

I keep taking it, preserving the nostalgic moment for longer and longer. It galvanises my heart, like Elliot's hand really is on the inhaler, while his other steadies my face. The raspiness leaves, but the dizziness doesn't, and my heart beats faster and faster.

Elaine crashes into me, knocking the inhaler out of my mouth.

“How many times have you just taken that?” she demands, and I look down at it, trying to think.

“I have no idea,” I say slowly.

She moves my hand and makes me slot the cap onto the mouthpiece, where it fits with a click.

“Hold my arm,” she says, and I obey. “Let's go sit down.”

“I feel weird,” I say, swallowing down a cold, shaky feeling that's trying to rise up my throat like a spring tide.

~*~

Today, I’m going to boarding school. My suitcases are leaning against my desk, while my favourite clothes try to push open the zips from within. The rest of my clothes are hanging in my wardrobe, crying out through the dark crack in the door that I'll need lime green shorts while I'm at school, I really will!

For some reason, my pendant is dragging the chain into my neck. But...yeah right. It’s not _really_ pulling in the direction of Elliot – that’s my imagination getting away from me and mixing up with my feelings.

I trudge downstairs with the pendant in my hand, no longer bothering to hide it under my new uniform shirt.

When I pass mum in the kitchen, on my way to the pantry, she catches me in her arms. “I’m going to miss you," she says.

“Then don’t send me away." I stare at the terracotta tiles on the floor and refuse to hug her.

“We have to send you there. They'll give you the discipline I couldn't give you myself,” she says, tears welling up for the fiftieth time this week.

“ _That’s_ not how you’ve failed as a mother,” I say as I detach her arms from my torso and stomp off to my room again.

I’ll just eat lollies for breakfast. That should make me feel better.

Oh, God. I just want to mope around the house and drag my feet like they each weigh a tonne. This must be how Elaine feels when she’s got her period and she goes all silent and looks like she’s plotting the end of humankind.

I eat my sugary breakfast out of its plastic packet and stare at my suitcases. Last time I saw suitcases, I cried my eyes out. And now I’m crying my eyes out.

I sob like a toddler with a decapitated ice-cream until my door opens and Dad’s head pokes through.

“What’s all this?” he asks, brow furrowed to a point, shadowing his eyes.

“Go away, you stupid man!” I yell.

“I get no respect from you!” he yells back, then creaks down the hallway without closing my door.

“Don’t kid yourself that you deserve any!” I yell after him, then slump down onto my pillows.

My legs start itching from the inside while my duvet starts to feel like gauze. I get up and bolt out my door, but Mum stops me in the hallway.

“It’s almost time to go, dear,” she says.

“Not going,” I say before stuffing in another mouthful of sugary goodness and backing into the wall.

“Yes, dear, you are,” she says, but I know she’s going to need Dad’s help, so I dart around her, down the stairs and out the door, a breeze buffeting me in the face as I go.

I only manage to run just past Elliot's house before Dad swoops down on me. I submit to him placidly enough, holding out my arms to be dragged under the armpits, but try to catch the heels of my shoes into the cracks and grooves of the footpath and make myself as heavy as possible. Which, sadly, isn’t very heavy.

“Andrew! How old are you?” he reprimands.

“Two!” I say in a mock-cheerful voice, though dread burrows and settles further into my stomach the closer we get to the car.

Dad wrenches the car door open and shoves me in next to David. Why the hell is he coming? Oh, that grin and box of party poppers he’s holding is a bit of a giveaway.

“Ready for prison?” he says, waving a green party popper in my face.

“Ready for your hair being ripped out?” I say in his stupid voice. My hand darts out to grab a chunk of his hair and yank hard, making him yelp.

“Andrew, stop,” Dad says loudly, the tension in his voice pulled as tight as David’s hair.

He revves too hard and I almost do yank a clump of hair out, then my hand, sadly, loses its grip on those unwashed, lank fronds. Stupid stupid stupid David.

In lieu of a stony silence that I’m just not capable of, even when trying to channel Elliot’s character, I spend the entire forty-minute drive saying things like, “I won’t miss any of you!” and, “Change the station! Your taste in music is _awful._ No wonder you don’t appreciate me.”

“If you don’t want me to be gay, why are you sending me to an all-boy’s boarding school?” is my last snipe, as Dad parks the car outside a crumbly, beige building. At first glance, the black coils of iron on top of the brick gates look like barbed wire.

Dad turns and stares at me blankly, then his expression sets in stubbornness. “It’s too late worm out of this.”

“Fine then. I’ll go from being the devoted boyfriend of a lovely guy to a manwhore with a whole bunch of idiots,” I say, while thinking, _It’s not true, Elliot, I swear!_

“I’m sure none of the boys here will be up for that,” Dad says, and I choke with laughter. “And the teachers will not allow it.”

I roll my eyes and get out of the car. The street is full of cars, most of them in glossy charcoal and black, with logos perched on their bonnets. Boys in the same navy and black uniform as me emerge from the rear doors, suitcases and duffel bags in tow. I look back at Mum’s wet face, then quickly shift my gaze to Dad and his crossed arms.

Something cracks by my ear, making me wince, and colourful string spreads over my face. The smell of gunpowder filters up my nose. I snuffle and swipe the strings away, revealing David's face, sneer pointed up at me. I poke my tongue out at him and spread the string across my hair in a swirl that matches my fringe.

~*~

I sit down on my bed and swing my legs, wondering what to do next. I’ve never lived in another place before. I still can’t think of this bed as mine – it’s shorter than me and the sheets smell like a hospital. And that desk has _carvings_ in it, like a school desk. It _is_ a school desk, isn’t it? Ugh! Plus, this room is smaller than my old one, but I only get half of it.

My roommate’s half contains a brown-clad single bed just like mine, with a matching beige lamp on a matching bedside table. His little desk-slash-woodcarving has piles of books and paper all over it in neat-ish piles, and a laptop. There are some pictures of people holding tennis racquets pasted on the wall in front of the desk, plus a picture of sea captain in a beautiful tricorne hat, which makes me grin.

A boy with short brown hair pops his head into the room, gripping the door-frame.

“Hi,” he says, slinking in. “I guess you’re my new roommate.”

“It appears so.” I grin at him and stand up. The scratchy quilt tries to cling to my trousers. Better be friendly. It’s not his fault I’m here in this hellhole.

“What do you think of the place?” he asks, fidgeting with his sleeve.

“I want to leave already,” I say in a cheerful tone, still grinning. “Of course, I never wanted to be here and it’d take a lot to change that.”

“Oh,” he looks down at the floor, actually blushing!

“My name’s Andrew, by the way,” I say.

“Cameron,” he says, holding his hand out to me, which I shake vigorously. “Why don’t you want to be here? This is a good school.”

“Don’t be offended! I just want to go home. This is like a prison sentence for me.”

“Oh, alright.” He scratches his arm. “Don’t worry. You’ll like it here, in the end. I’m way more motivated, living at school.” I wrinkle my nose and he winces. “I sound like a nerd! I’m really not that bad…”

“Aah, it’s okay.” I pat him on the shoulder. “Be as nerdy as you want. Just don’t expect me to be!”

“Alright, alright,” he says, waving his hand and laughing nervously. “Lunch’ll be out about now. Want me to show you the cafeteria?”

“Sure!” I follow him out the door.

“Although, I must warn you.” He turns back to me, “the food probably _won’t_ improve your opinion of this place.”

~*~

Cameron leads me into the cafeteria, which is bustling with boys sitting at long narrow tables parallel to a cook’s station along the left wall. It reminds me of school camp. I hope Mrs Brinkley won’t jump out of nowhere and start lecturing me on how to clean the oven.

“Wow,” I say. “My school’s tuck-shop is basically a hole in a wall. Though most of us brought out own lunches, I suppose.” I sigh. “That’s right. No more mummy lunches.” What? Just because I’m mad at her doesn’t mean I won’t let her feed me.

Cameron chuckles and shakes his head. “You’ll be missing them even more when you’ve had this food for a week.”

He walks over to the cook’s station and grabs a plastic tray like the ones at McDonalds. I wonder if they’ll have burgers… Oh, remember when Elliot and I would go out for forbidden meaty fast food? That was fun. Except last time, when our heads were bowed over our plastic trays under the weight of the future. This should be exciting! A new way of obtaining food! But it's part of that future we once looked at with such despair, and I therefore hate it.

Cameron’s fingers click in front of my face and I jump. “Are you alright? Grab a tray.”

“Oh, right, I’m supposed to be following your lead. Imitating you, one could say.” I turn to him and grin mischievously, while he blinks at me.

I take a tray and slide it along the metal rack, holding it in the exact same way he’s holding his, with one hand, fingers splayed out along the edge.

“You don’t have to take it that far,” he says, chuckling.

“I’m just trying to make the most of your example,” I say in his voice, and his eyes flutter, then bulge.

“Wh… Your voice was different just then,” he says.

“Different to what?” I say, still in his voice.

“How you normally talk…”

“But what is it not different to?”

“How I talk!” he says in an almost appalled tone.

I crack up, and he starts to laugh, too, eyebrows raised and teetering towards the sides of his face.

“I practiced it when you went to the bathroom, before,” I say, “just to freak you out.”

“Just in that short time?”

“I have a lot of experience,” I say, feeling self-satisfied.

Still not as fun as pretending to be Mrs Flenworthy on the phone to Elliot… Oh, god, even the fun things are becoming miserable without him. Why do I feel happier at the sadder moments, sliding paper into dark cracks in post boxes and hearing his voice seep through the black holes in my phone's earpiece? But I guess that’s it. It’s not about whether a moment is sad or enjoyable, it’s about whether he’s there.

“My friends _have_ to meet you,” Cameron says, and my attention reluctantly focuses on him, as though I were enjoying my internal moping.

“So I get to be a show pony?” I clap my hands, thinking at least this should cheer me up.

When a lady in a dirty apron has put a sandwich on each of our plates, he leads me over to one of the long tables and to where two boys are sitting.

“Rob, Vance, Andrew,” he says, pointing to a petit boy with red hair, a portly boy with light brown hair, then to me.

“Hello, nice to meet you,” I say in Cameron’s voice, holding out my hand for each of them to shake.

They shake my hand dumbly, blinking in much the same way Cameron did just before, as though they’re the ones doing the imitating.

“What’s wrong with them?” I ask Cameron, still in his voice, and he shrugs, a snort-laugh breaking through his fake nonchalance like a pig through a barn gate. That makes me burst out laughing, too, unfortunately in my own voice.

“Wow!” Rob stares at me, his mouth gaping in a wide grin.

“How’d you do that?” Vance asks.

I bow like a theatrical magician and say, “It’s just one of my many talents.”

“Meaning you won’t tell us?” Vance says.

“Pretty much." I smirk.

Another boy walks over to the group and sets his tray down. He looks like a giraffe in human form, and I’m glad that he sits down immediately, because it should be illegal to be taller than me.

“Sam, look at what this guy can do!” Rob says to him, whacking his arm like a child (or a teenager such as myself) trying to get its mothers attention.

“What?” he asks, staring at me steadily under drooping eyelids.

I’m half inclined to annoy the hell out of Rob by feigning innocence, but…showing off is more fun.

“Hi,” I say in Cameron’s voice, holding out a hand to shake. “I’m Andrew, just started here. You know,” I put my hands on my hips and look around appraisingly, “this seems like a really good school. I think I’m lucky to be here. Except for the food,” I say, picking up a sandwich from my plate and staring at it with disdain. “I’m _not_ a garbage disposal.”

Rob and Vance burst out laughing, and Sam does the whole blinky thing. I grin at Cameron; he’s bright red and his mouth is taut.

“Alright,” he says, “very funny.” He sits down with a thump and starts eating his sandwich with precise, sharp bites.

“So, are you going to take the orientation this afternoon?” Vance asks me.

“Yeah, I’m guessing I can’t get out of it.” I say.

Rob shakes his head vigorously and says, “No way! They’ll round you up like sheep and go on to you about the most _boring_ minute details and you’ll wish you never came here.”

“Well, I already wish that!” I say exuberantly.

“Why?” Sam asks.

“Because my boyfriend isn’t here,” I sigh and look upwards in a Disney princess sort of a way.

“That sucks,” Rob says around a mouthful of the mush he’s eating, before swallowing it down, a little too soon, judging by his wince as the lump travels down his throat and his subsequent coughing.

Vance and Sam stare at their plates and say nothing, while Cameron stares at me with pink cheeked surprise, then stares at the others, his eyes nearly squinting. I think he’s…measuring their reactions…

Well, jeez, that was a fail at attention grabbing.


	16. Chapter 16

“Welcome to all of our new students. My name is Mrs Alexis,” an almost-grey-haired lady announces to the class at form room. “I’ll be taking care of you all year, so don’t hesitate to ask me for any help.”

She surveys the room and so do I, looking at all the young men in their uniforms that only slightly differ from the ones at my old school. The navy has a slight green tinge, and the stripes are black instead of grey. The desks look like they've been thrown across the room a few times and left in a lake to waste away.

“Well then! Why don’t we get to know one another? We’ll go around the room introducing ourselves. Tell us your name, your favourite class and, if you’re new, your old school.”

General sounds of displeasure erupt from the class, and I can’t say I relate. Except for my displeasure for this entire stinking affair.

Cameron looks over at me from his desk next to mine and winces. I shrug my shoulders back and he looks perplexed. I want to whisper to him but the boy who's speaking looks nervous enough as it is; his face is completely red. I’m sure Elliot would hate this, too. And if he were here I wouldn’t hate any of this…

When it’s my turn, I stand up, which none of the other guys did, and say, “Hello there. I’m Andrew Cornwall, and I’ve been dragged here against my will. I’m sure and determined that I won’t like any of this experience. I used to go to Creston School, where my best friend still is, and my favourite class is Music. Which, coincidentally, will suck without her.”

Mrs Alexis' lip dents inwards at the corner, and she says, “We’re going to have to melt away your reservations, aren’t we?”

I shrug.

The other boys are craning their necks or swivelling around in their chairs to look at me, some with distaste, some with awe, and some with amusement. I let their stares soak into my pores, probably giving my ego UV poisoning, before sitting down. Cameron raises an eyebrow, as if to say, ‘did you really need to say _that_?’ He turns to the boy who is now speaking, then looks at me again, as do most of the others.

You’re not supposed to enjoy that, Andrew! Oh, right. But it’s nice, even though I don’t feel any less lonely. A billion faces turned to mine with fixed attention cannot equal that special one, even if he’s only looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

~*~

I follow Cameron down the hallway, trying to memorise how many right and left turns there are before our dorm number, B28, gleams before us on its navy painted door. But all I remember is a line of navy rectangles against a winding strip of white wall. I can't believe they painted the hallway white. Black marks are scuffed all the way up to waist level in some places, as though someone thought kicking down the walls would release them from this jail.

Inside the room, everything is brown. I wrinkle my nose and decide I'm bringing my own duvet, on the weekend. The lime green one with the badly painted swirls.

"So." Cameron perches on his bed and looks up at me, eyes widening. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Well," I enunciate, leaning against my desk, "that was too much learning for the first day of the year. And not enough Elliot."

"Your boyfriend?" he asks, maintaining eye contact for a moment, before looking down at his knees.

"Yeah," I say. "He's the best person in the world, so don't go thinking I'm gonna jump on you."

"I don't think that!" He waves his hands in the air between us. "But you should be careful about telling the other guys." He shuffles forward, so he's barely sitting on his bed anymore. "There was this guy...he got caught with gay porn on his school computer account. It turned out that some other guys had hacked into the account and put it there. But he got made fun of...really bad, and ended up leaving the school."

I stare at him, with his hands clasped and knuckles protruding, and launch myself off my desk.

"We have computer accounts?" I ask. "How do I get mine?"

"Uh." He shuffles backwards again. "I guess you'll get it at computer class, tomorrow."

"Can I see the computer room? Could I please," I drag the word out along my need, "use your account to send an email? No gay porn, I promise!"

His cheeks go pink and he nods.

He leads me back through the hallway and into a courtyard, with trees and wooden benches dotted throughout its apricot paving stones. A group of boys are crowding around a laptop on the far side, and they glance up at us for a second before converging in on the glowing screen again.

"The computer room's in here," Cameron says, pointing to a nearby navy door and opening it for me.

"Thank you!" I hop-skip inside.

He follows me in, saying, “There’s also one by our Maths classroom, but the computers in there are crap, so no one uses them. You’ll be done with school before one of those things powers up.”

I laugh and look around this so-called best computer room in the school. The windows are half shaded by blinds that are bent and tangled at the corners. They hang over rows of multicoloured, partially see-through computers, more than half of which are free and waiting for my sugary fingers to push and prod into giving me at least a little bit of Elliot. As I follow Cameron down an aisle, I notice a row at the end of the room, where little grey spheres sit atop the screens.

I gasp. "Are those webcams?"

"I think so," Cameron says, walking up to them and picking one up. "They weren't here last year."

He peers at the lens, before perching it back on the screen. It tumbles down onto the keyboard, clattering the attention of the other boys away from their screens. I laugh and dart up to help him with it, and we manage to clip it back to the top of its square nest.

As he sits down and logs on, he says, "I don't know why they bought them. Webcams suck, even with ADSL."

"But," I lean on the desk and watch the screen, "it's better than nothing."

"Better just to call someone or talk to them in person."

"Sometimes we don't have that option. Like when people are in Australia." I pout.

"Right," he says, staring at the screen, the keyboard, his hands, and not me.

He slides his chair to the side and plays with his sleeve while I log into my hotmail. I notice the little msn messenger icon in the corner of my screen, but it'd be pushing it to log in there while Cameron's waiting.

I skim through my inbox and click straight on Elliot's latest email. My grin pushes at my cheekbones while my heart thuds with every word I read. Poor Elliot. Buying stationery with your poppa sounds more painful than the classes you'll use them in. Now, have a look at the top of your screen. Is there a webcam? Please tell me there's a webcam.

~*~

Today, I'm sitting in front of a, sadly, webcam-less computer, watching the computer teacher, Mr Raymond, scrawl across the whiteboard at the front of the computer room. Most of his scribbles are blocked from view by a head of mousey hair, so I open up a browser window and log into my email. When Mr Raymond's narrow eyes rove past me, I quickly cover the page with the PowerPoint window I'm supposed to be looking at.

In between adding sounds and fixing headings in my presentation about chocolate, I sneak looks at Elliot's latest email.

Hi Andrew,

There are webcams at the internet cafe! Do the computers at your school have iChat? We could have a video convo on that. Otherwise, I don't know - but I'll figure something out.

It's so hot here, and Poppa keeps shutting all the windows I open. Maybe he's afraid some leaves will get in. Seriously, he's always raking the goddamn leaves. Or making me do it.

He liked the cottage pie I made last night, and managed to get a dig in about Mum only making him rabbit food. I heard him arguing on the phone and figured she was on the other end. I wanted to ask if I could talk to Rebecca, but that would have involved taking to Mum, so no...

School just started this week. At least it's something to do. I can't concentrate on the lessons in this heat, though.

I hope you're settling into your new school. Don't piss the teachers off too much... Just be cheeky and cute :)

Miss you tons,

Elliot

On the right hand side of the desktop, a lovely icon announces itself as 'iChat'. I stop myself from squealing and open my PowerPoint again. Am I really going to see him? The room seems brighter, as though the blinds have been thrown open upon the Australian sky. As though Elliot, too, can see the light glinting across the top of the computer monitors.

~*~

We file into the church in a double line, while two teachers purse their lips on either side of the big wooden double doors. I haven’t been inside a church in ages – Mum and Dad hardly ever go. I do remember that that big stained glass window is going to look a lot better from the inside. Right now, all the colours are covered with a translucent dull grey. Maybe it’s supposed to be a reward for going inside, seeing all of those beautiful colours, but it makes me think we’re looking in at dullness and will be looking out at brilliance. Ooh, I’ll have to tell that one to Carmen.

As I pass through the doors, a teacher with a curved spine taps me on the shoulder and says, “See me afterwards about your hair.”

I just look at him in horror, dread stinging my stomach. They’ve already taken my dear Elliot away from me – they’re _not_ taking my hair away. And my victory roll is only about three centimetres tall, anyway.

I turn to Cameron and he says quietly, a line of shadow passing over him, “They’ll probably make you cut it.”

I whimper and get shushed by another teacher.

We file down the middle aisle to the back and sit in a section of plastic chairs to wait while the younger students file into the pews in front. All the while, an organ is playing some dreary music that I suppose is supposed to make us feel pious. I’d love to get my hands on one of those and play something circusy or gothic or whatever else I felt like. Instead, it’s…well, I can’t remember his name, but I'm going to call him Mr Flenworthy. A semi-robot gets to play that awesome instrument and I don’t? No fair.

A priest in robes that _I’d_ never get away with steps up to the podium and welcomes us to a new year of church and blah blah blah blah blah - ooh, we get to sing!

I stand up with the others and belt out the hymn, reading the lyrics off the overhead projector covering half of the pulpit, even though they're lame and don’t even fit into the music properly. The only other person singing loudly is Mrs Peters and she sounds like she's choking on acid, so I want to drown her out. Beneath our competing voices, the hum of a few hundred unenthusiastic boys seeps into the spaces between the wooden pews and floorboards.

The priest goes on some more, exuberant in tone, but that’s not enough to clip a leash onto my frolicking attention span. I watch the light seep in through the windows, splaying colour beneath them, making a head of hair green and the edge of a sleeve red.

Cameron gets out a piece of refill paper and starts folding it, and Vance swats his arm and whispers something to him. Cameron shrugs him off and continues folding, until he’s made a paper crane like the ones Elaine used to make in class. Well, she might still make them…

Rob glances around Vance and snickers, and Mrs Peters’ sharp ‘shhh’ is almost as unpleasant as her singing.

When we’ve filed out of the church, making our way down a street shaded by speckled trees, Cameron pulls his crane out of his pocket, white with blue stripes and a perfect round hole in one layer of a wing.

Rob laughs again and says, “What are you, a _girl_?” He says ‘girl’ in _that way_ , and you wouldn’t need to be a feminist for it to raise the hairs on your neck.

Elaine would tell him off, so, in her absence, I say, “Why is that an insult, eh? Don’t you like girls?”

Rob starts, and stammers, “Of course I do! I’m not-“

I raise an eyebrow, daring him to go ahead, but he deflates and pouts at the ground.

Cameron smiles triumphantly at Rob and hands me the crane. “You can have it,” he says.

I take it and smile, saying, “Thanks!” but he still starts to look uncomfortable, his face going red and his mouth twisting, so I joke, “Aren’t one thousand of these supposed to be good luck?”

He laughs. “My life isn’t _that_ boring!”

I spot the teacher that may or may not want to cut off my hair, and hide behind the others, pinching the wing of the crane.

“Lend me your one thousandth of luck!” I say, scrunching my eyes shut, and it seems to work, because he passes us by until he's shielded from us by a row of navy blazers.

~*~

I dart into the computer room, my earphones swinging from my fist and clacking against the door, making me jump. The other boys keep their eyes on their screens and keyboards. I hurry over to the last free webcam computer and sit down. The boy next to me has puffy, black headphones on and is playing a game where you have to run across a 2D landscape, dodging slime monsters, and open boxes with Maths questions inside. Fun. At least he won't hear me.

While I wait for the computer to turn on, I pick up the webcam and stare at it. It looks like a magic 8 ball, but I wouldn’t dare shake it, this precious, precious piece of technology. I could love computers as much as Elliot does if all of them were as glorious as this dear object. In its unblinking eye, my fate sits, for it has the power to transport me to where my dear Elliot is, or the power to fail me and make me throw it on the floor and explain the grey pile of glass and plastic to Mr Fitch.

I check my watch, a bright blue and silver chunk of metal on my wrist, which I saw Mrs Alexis squinting at with confiscator's eyes during form room today. It’s 5:46pm. But oh well. I’m logging into iChat, anyway. Elliot might be 14 minutes early, too, and I will waste none of that time sitting here in nauseating, head-caving-in anticipation.

My one-man contacts list shows up as offline for a moment, then Elliot's username springs into online mode. A window pops up, and pain slices into the bottom corner of my chest.

Elliot: Hi! Shall we start? I caught the bus straight from school. Granddad thinks I'm at a study group lol

Me: hahaha studying my face! How do you make the webcam do stuff?

A box springs onto my screen, telling me that Elliot wants to start a video conversation with me. I click ‘accept’ and another box takes its place, and his face is in it! Sure, it's pixelated and his skin looks nearly grey, but those eyes, smiling under his thick framed glasses and overhung by a fringe that could do with a trim...I know they're his, and they're looking at me!

“Oh my God!” I squeak.

"I know," he says, his mouth suddenly smiling and his face jumping to the left, then back to the centre of the screen. It's like an animation that's lost half its slides.

His grin has stretched across his whole face, which doesn’t seem as wide as I remember, and his eyes have turned into upside-down-smile shapes over baggy lower lids. His hair is adorably mussed and I can see the top of his crumpled grey t-shirt. Yeah, he’s not exactly presentable, but this is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen since he left!

I tell him so, and get to watch him go pale and look down with an adorable twist of his mouth. If only the webcam was picking up the movement in between looking at me and looking down.

“Why does it go all jerky like that?” I ask.

“Basically,” he says, “it’s because the application we’re using uses the user datagram protocol at the transport level. It’s fast, but not reliable, so, when data’s lost, it isn’t recovered. If it used transmission control protocol, the lost data would be re-sent, but the video would be really slow…”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about but your voice is so pretty!”

He laughs and our brief eye contact is gone, but my heart is still thudding at my chest. My body aches because the sight of him is making me reflexively want to hug him. I don't want to think about how long it's been since I hugged him. No, don't think about it!

“I like your hair,” he says, startling me and making me beam.

“Yay!" I touch my super-smooth fringe. "I made it extra awesome, just for you!”

“I feel kinda lame, now,” he says, smoothing his hair down. “Not that my hair is ever that great.”

“It’s adorable,” I say. “You’re just not as interested in playing with it as much as I am. Nothing wrong with that.”

“True enough.” He leans forward and rests his chin on his hand. “So, how’re your classes?”

“Fine.” I shrug. “What about you? Have you been making any friends over there?”

“Er, not yet.” He wrinkles his nose.

“Hey, it’s good that you won’t have anyone keeping you from coming back here, but I don’t want you to be lonely…” I say.

“Okay, okay,” he says, not looking convinced.

I frown and try to think of something else that he might enjoy over there.

“So, how’re you going on building that computer?” I ask.

“Oh.” He looks surprised and wrinkles his brow. “The only hard bit is finding out where to buy parts…but I’m having trouble finding the motivation.”

“I guess I can understand that,” I say in a watery-thin voice that’s making it far too obvious what’s welling up behind my eyes. “I miss you,” I say.

He looks down and appears to take a deep breath. “Me too. I mean – I miss you too,” he says.

“I love you.”

Holy crap. Did I just say that?! I reel back, feeling a swarm of hot needles scrape across my face, and almost fall off my chair. I don't dare to look around me.

I nearly don’t hear him say, “I love you, too,” but I do, and it stops my reeling instantly, my chair legs thudding back down to the floor.

“Really?” I gush, feeling stupid.

“Of course.” He leans forward, smiling wider than I’ve ever seen.

~*~

Mr Woolston ceases his incessant rambling about the Cold War to gesture to my raised hand.

“May I please have the great privilege of going to the bathroom?” I say all posh and formal-like.

He rolls his eyes and says, “No – this is too important to miss and there are only ten minutes until break time.”

“But I’ve got my period!” I whine.

He stares at me in disbelief while the class laughs. Then he looks back at the streaky whiteboard and continues on as if I’d never raised my hand, but his voice sounds weak under the laughter of the class, and his “shush” only reduces it to titters and whispers. Haha! Their attention is _mine_!

Cameron kicks me in the leg and gives me an ‘are you insane?’ look, and I grin back.

You know, all this attention is great, but it's filing me with about half the satisfaction it usually does. _Sigh_. At least Elliot _loves_ me. His attention probably _is_ on me; I just can’t tell.


	17. Chapter 17

The movie flickers at me in a haze from the TV in blurred pink, beige and green. Somehow, I know it’s the one about the ditzy girl becoming a lawyer. Why am I bothering to watch it again?

“Is there anything else on?” Elliot asks from beside me. His edges are sharp, almost cartoonish, the strands of his hair merging into defined clumps.

“Nope," I answer. "I checked before.”

I chuck a chip at him from the bowl wedged between our knees, and he laughs as he says, “Don’t,” so I do it again. “Stop it,” he says, flicking the chips over to me, but they miss and fall onto the couch.

“You want me to stop _not_ throwing chips at you?” I ask, throwing another one and laughing.

“No,” he says, fending it off when it flies at his face.

“You’ll have to be more specific, then.”

“Really? Wow-“ I know he was going to say something sarcastic, but this chip really _does_ hit him in the face. “Damn you!” he says and stands up abruptly, grabbing the bowl and tipping it all over me.

I wail as the pale gold rains all over me and the salt gets in my hair. Somehow, I already know I’m going to be washing it out for half a week, like after swimming at a sandy beach. I wipe crumbs and granules off my face and wrinkle my nose at him.

“I hope you get in trouble for the mess you just made!” I say, grabbing a handful of chips and shoving them at his chest, crunching them into the material of his t-shirt. He tries to escape backwards, but I reach up and grab his collar, pulling him down to my level, and the thought of sprinkling some chips in his hair dissolves when I realise how close his face is to mine and I kiss him instead.

He stumbles forward and onto me, and I let his weight press me down, sinking into the cushions of the couch, then his wet lips and tongue are replaced by dry air and the only thing weighing me down into my mattress is my duvet and a sleepy, lethargic feeling. I shove them off me, though my neck still feels inexplicably heavy, and sit up, running a hand through my hair. I feel only the crunch of yesterday’s hairspray, no chips. That shouldn’t be disappointing.

My clock glares 6:00 at me, so I glare back at it. There isn’t any point in sneaking off to the computer room to check my email. It’s 4am in Australia. There’s no point.

~*~

“We need to find you a girlfriend, Cameron!” Rob says, then bites into his school-burger, which is more like a sandwich, it’s so flat.

“Have you even asked him if he _wants_ a girlfriend?” I raise an eyebrow and prod at my own burger. The bun has barely been bronzed by an oven.

Cameron stares at me in alarm, then his eyes dart from the seafoam green door at the other end of the hall to the line of ceiling-high windows to our left.

“It’s not that strange an idea, is it?” he says, doing a good job of sounding a bit offended. “But don't set me up,” he adds quickly. “I’m fine.”

“How can you be fine without a girlfriend?” Rob asks.

“Not everyone cries into their pillow if a member of the opposite sex didn't give them the eye,” Vance says.

“I’m not that bad…” Rob looks down at his now empty plate, brow heavy with shame, while the others chuckle.

“You’re not allowed to laugh, Sam, you’re just as bad,” Vance says.

Sam’s face instantly turns downwards in similar shame.

“I resent your opposite sex comment,” I say. “Not everyone is straight.”

Rob chimes in, “Yeah, like Vance!”

“Nooooo!” Vance wails.

“So, what? You think that’s an insult, do you?” I say, pretending to be more rankled than I am and staring him in the eyes.

“No…” he says, looking, I must admit, adorably repentant with his big eyes and puffed out squirrel-cheeks.

I laugh cheerfully for a moment, and everyone else starts to laugh, too. Then I suddenly stop and resume my previous tone. “Good.” But I can’t keep a straight (ahem) face when his laughter dies down and he looks worried again.

~*~

I lean against a brick separating grass from sand, clutching a fizzy drink, and watch a pack of children building a sand castle. The tallest one, a girl with pink and white polka dot togs, waves her bucket above her head to ward off seagulls while the others shovel sand into a huge lump. I want to join them, but my leather boots might get scratched by the sand, and I haven't worn mufti clothes in one whole week. As I sip my fizzy drink, I chew on the straw. Bubbles tickle the bridge of my nose.

Elaine waves at me from down the wall and skips up to me. I smile and wave back, then shift my necklace so it’s hanging from a different place on my neck.

“What’s that grimace for?” she asks, her black sneakers thwacking against the concrete as she jumps into place next to me.

“My neck hurts,” I whine, squeezing the chain between my thumb and fingers.

“Aww,” she coos, giving my neck a bit of a rub. “Maybe you slept funny.”

“Yeah, I think I must’ve,” I say. “But how are you?”

“Fantastic! You know why? Mum got us broadband!”

“Yay! Now you’ll be able to download homoerotic content at the speed of light!”

“Eeeee!” she grips my shoulder and shakes me to and fro, and I laugh. “Speaking of homoerotic content…Benjy and Lance missed their bus, so they’ll be late.”

“Too busy making out?”

“You know it.”

I sigh, “Aah, where would I be without you guys? It’s so wrong not to be at school with you.”

“I know!” she says, balling her hands into fists. “I mean, sure, I’ve got broadband, now, and I found out that Lacey and I have a lot in common, which is _great_ , but _school is so boring without you!_ And Gregory Ulrich hit on me! Ewww!”

“He probably likes your gigantic boobs,” I say, putting a comforting arm around her shoulder, which she shrugs off.

“Shut up,” she says, covering her boobs as though they’re unsightly aberrations. “Creeps never leered at me when you were around.”

“You need another gay guy who everyone assumes is your boyfriend,” I say. “Where’re Benjy and Lance when you need them?”

“No one’s gonna believe _they’re_ straight,” she says, rolling her eyes and giggling.

“Are you making rude jokes about your friends again?” I can almost hear Carmen’s pursed lips, though I didn’t hear her sneak up on us.

“Carmen!” I exclaim. “You can pretend to be Elaine’s lesbian lover!”

“No I can’t!” she says, lurching backwards.

“But I’m getting hit on by creepy guys,” Elaine whines.

“The Lord can help us through temptation.” Oh my god, she got worse in my absence.

“Gregory Ulrich is _not_ a temptation!” Elaine says, screwing up her face.

“Oh…” Carmen frowns in thought. “Tell him no in a publicly humiliating way.”

“Genius…” Elaine says, eyes crackling with mischievous glee.

“Now she’ll almost be hoping he does it again,” I laugh.

“Am not,” she says, but laughs, too.

We start meandering away from the beach and towards the street, eyes roving up and down the strip of restaurants, fast food chains and other assorted eateries. I stop in front of the pastel clad ice-cream shop and both girls nod. I order a scoop each of cookies and cream and honeycomb on a banana split with chocolate, raspberry and caramel sauce, chocolate shavings, hundreds and thousands and a flake stuck into each scoop. Elaine, Carmen and the rest of the patrons sitting in their blue and beige booths look at me with a mixture of envy and disgust on their faces, and I hold it proudly in front of my chest as I take it to our table and sit down.

“I have to fill the hole in my heart somehow,” I say, digging my plastic spoon into my ‘meal’.

“Oh, Andrew,” Elaine sighs, ruffling my hair.

“This must be awful for you,” Carmen squeezes my free hand, “but sugar isn’t going to fill that hole.”

“No harm in trying…” I devour my spoonful and try to concentrate on the taste properly as it passes through my mouth, and try not to think about how Elliot’s kisses are way better.

“God can fill your heart better than any food or human can,” Carmen says, and Elaine almost chokes on her ice-cream as she laughs. “What? It’s true!”

“Even if god were real,” I say, “Elliot’s love is better.”

Carmen shakes her head. “You’re hurting, aren’t you? God’s perfect love will never make you feel this way.”

“Don’t care. Elliot’s still better.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“’Course I do. We have the most perfect love in the world. It’s everything else that’s imperfect.”

“You’re so lovely and crazy,” Elaine says with a look as gooey as the caramel sauce oozing down the slope of her ice cream.

“It’s not fair,” Benjy says, sliding into the booth beside me, Lance following. “I wish the girl next door liked me that much.”

Carmen’s staring at her strawberry sundae like it’s betrayed her, and I know I shouldn’t feel sorry for someone who just tried to impose their beliefs on me, but…I do, so I slide an as-yet-unmangled end of my sundae towards her and offer her some. She smiles and accepts a spoonful, offering me some of hers in return. She’s like Jesus, eating with the gentiles, tax collectors and prostitutes.

“You know who I think is gay?” I say suddenly, waving my spoon at Elaine. “My roommate. And he’s all shy about it. You could be his beard!”

Benjy leans back in his plastic blue chair. “Please don’t tell me what you’ve done…”

I swat at him with my sticky spoon, making him reel back further and wobble on the back legs of his chair. “We haven’t done anything! What do you take me for?!”

“Just don’t let this guy get any ideas,” Lance says as he steadies Benjy's chair with one hand.

“He wouldn’t.” I frown at my half-eaten banana in its pool of melting ice cream. He knows how sad I’ve been, and though I don’t know him well, he seems like a stand-up guy. Yeah, he wouldn’t.

~*~

"Andrew. Don't slouch." Mr Woolston smacks his marker against the whiteboard, and I jump, blinking tufts of snow from behind my eyes. Sunbeams shoot through the windows and melt any snow still blurring my vision. "You're not here to sleep."

I rub the back of my neck and say, "My neck hurts."

"Probably because you're slouching." He folds his arms against his straight torso.

The rest of the class is turned to me, once again, their gazes forming a radius around me. I slouch further, and collect my pendant in my hand, which instantly drops to the surface of my desk under the weight. The edges of my wooden chair are cutting into my bum, as though I've been sitting here for two hours, not ten minutes.

"Are you wearing a necklace?" Mr Woolston asks, holding out his hand and marching towards me.

I tuck the necklace back under my shirt and flatten my back against the back of my chair. The pendant sits against my chest, almost tipping me backwards. My body shivers while my face flushes, and I blink up at him, swallowing bile.

"It's a family heirloom," I say, knowing I couldn't fool him that it's got religious significance.

He stops in front of me, his forehead folding and his hand dropping to his side. A couple of pens and chair legs scratch at the edge of my attention, but I keep eye contact with him.

"Alright," he says. "See Mrs Ren about it today."

I don't know who that is, but I nod anyway, making my brain slush about in my skull. He nods in return, then marches up to the front of the classroom to continue circling the word _margin_ on the board while attempting to make us understand whatever the hell it is.

~*~

My eyes flash open as my throat constricts, and I gasp, sending a knife of air down into my lungs. I sit up and knead my chest as though it will help. My inhaler lays on my bedside table, uncradled by soft hands, tipped on its side, varnish glinting underneath it. As I pick it up and shake it, my jaw aches like it does when I'm hungry and stuff a handful of lollies into my mouth. The Ventolin starts to work after four puffs.

I lie back down and wrap my arms around myself. This t-shirt is so thin. Why am I in summer pyjamas, anyway? It must be autumn, now. I heft myself up, rubbing the back of my aching neck, and shuffle over to my drawers of clothes. My toes sting in the cold air. I find my warmest flannelette pyjamas and bed socks, chuck them on top of my t-shirt and shorts, and burrow back into bed, to fall back into an empty, white dream.

~*~

I throw myself into a chair and punch my thumb into the on button of the translucent teal and white computer before me. As the mouse spins through powering up, opening the browser and logging into my email, I clack my nails against the navy mouse pad. The name ‘Hunter’ springs onto the screen, and I click the email so hard my finger nearly dents the mouse. Oh. It's from Rebecca, not Elliot. But still...why would she be emailing me?

Hi Andrew,

Long time no see; how are you?

Maybe Elliot told you, but I’m studying food tech at Auckland Uni. It’s okay...

I miss Elliot a lot, and I've been really worried about him. He just doesn't seem well. Probably not even socialising. Have you noticed this, too? Or am I being a worry wart? I figured you'd be a good judge of this.

I hope you're well and that your parents are being nice to you.

<3 Rebecca

Oh, what a sweet sister! I instantly reply to her, expounding upon my worries over the bags I saw under his sad eyes and sharp cheekbones. Not that I've seen them in fifty billion years. Okay. Maybe three weeks. No...that can't be right. I stare up at the ceiling, trying to remember the date. A fluorescent light stares straight back at me, bleaching my vision, and I scrunch my eyes closed.

When I open them, I zoom in on Elliot's new email to me, sitting in bold under Rebecca's.

Hi Andrew,

I have to ask you something, and I know you'll think I'm a nut case, but oh well... Does your necklace ever feel heavy or like its pulling? Sometimes mine is so heavy, almost like its trying to drag me somewhere. Maybe it wants to reconnect with its other half. Or maybe I'm projecting my feelings onto an inanimate object. But it doesn't sound so far fetched when you think about what the necklaces can do.

I hope yours doesn't hurt.

Love,

Elliot

I look down from the screen and stare at my pendant, looking like a curved, white tear-drop as it swings from my neck. There's a slight lean to its swing, like a magnet is pulling it left, even when I sway my body to the right. I never noticed that before. Do I really see it, now, or are my eyes the ones that are off centre?

~*~

I glance at the clock above the whiteboard and adjust my necklace so it’s sitting inside the collar of my shirt, but it just forces the folds in the material into my skin, almost searing it in place. I lean my head down so the pendant sits on the desk. Oh my god. My squeak is stifled as I bite my lip. Did the pendant just move? Fuck, it did it again! Sliding slightly over the star carved into the desktop, like a sailor charting a course with constellations, trying to drag my neck with it.

I have to ask Elliot about this. Face to face, if I can. Surely the book could explain this? Then again, he’s probably already read it cover to cover.

“Andrew? Are you paying attention?” Mrs Quinney says, tapping the whiteboard with her pen. One of Mrs Flenworthy’s relatives, I’m sure. “Please concentrate!” Can’t she see I’m in pain?

“Ah, could I please go to the sickbay?” I ask.

“Don’t be silly; you’re fine,” she says, with no concern for my wellbeing. I wish I wanted to throw up so I could do it on her ugly grandma shoes.

“Seriously,” I say, feeling my windpipes start to clench, just to top it all off.

“You, Andrew Cornwall, are never serious.” Her pursed lips writhe into a scowl.

I just concentrate on gasping in the thickening air and trying not to panic more than I already am, which is probably why I’m having the attack in the first place, which is making me panic more, so I really have to stop one to stop the other but none of them will stop and oh crap where is Elliot and his inhaler when he’s needed? Oh yeah, in FUCKING AUSTRALIA!

My head feels like it’s going to burst, and it _can’t_ just be from the panicking; I have to rest it on the desk as it tries to keep itself together and not explode on everyone, while the necklace tries to bring me down through the ground. The scant air I’m getting into my lungs is so cold it stings. My teeth chatter and I accidentally bite the edge of my tongue. This is it. I’m going to die. A billion inexplicable things are happening and I’m going to die from them because this number of things just can’t not accumulate in death.

I think I hear Mrs Flenworthy saying something about me maybe actually being sick, and I think, _What’s she doing here? Have I gone back to when things were good?_

And then I’m lying on a white plastic sheet and breathing in normal air of a normal consistency that my lungs are grateful for, and I sit up, wondering how that happened. The panic subsides as I realise I must have fainted, though part of me wonders if I’ve been teleported here. I can’t remember anything after putting my head on the desk.

A lady in a green nurse’s smock looks at me with surprising sympathy and says, “You gave us a bit of a shock, there! But don’t worry – you’re alright.”

“You fixed my asthma,” I say in a bemused tone that doesn’t sound like me.

“Yes, we couldn’t have you suffocating, could we?” she says, eyebrows turned down and outwards, eyes glimmering.

I shake my head slowly, then realise what’s weird. The necklace doesn’t hurt anymore. Instead, it feels like I’m wearing nothing. But it’s there – I can rub my fingers over the coarse line of the chain. It’s just _so light_ , almost floaty. I also feel a little colder than before, but that can’t be anything…right?

“You look sickly. We'll keep you here overnight,” the nurse says.

“Where is here?” I ask, looking around me at the white room filled with beds and curtains, all in white, grey and pale green tones that my eyes can barely focus on.

“Ngakau hospital,” she says, then sets down her metal clipboard and fetches a cream blanket from behind me. Thankfully, it isn't wool, or I'd be adding itchiness to my ailments.

I lay back and snuggle into it, but I still feel cold and shivery, especially at intervals, when my whole body shakes and my brain rattles in my skull. At least it’s no longer swelling.

I wonder what Elliot’s doing, and if he feels sick, too. Is this anything to do with the necklace? Oh, it must be. I don’t understand it. Maybe…after…I’ve slept.

~*~

I wake up to my phone blaring ‘Stand And Deliver’ by Adam Ant, and hang my hand over my bed to pick it up from the floor. A lump of mucus seems to have clogged up my entire face, probably seeping out of every crack, while the rest of my body aches from cold.

The blankets falling off my torso are my school brown ones, but my ringtone is demanding attention and I don't have time to remember leaving the hospital.

“Hello?” I say into the mouthpiece without even checking who’s calling.

“Hey, it’s Rebecca,” her voice says into my ear.

“Hi! What’s up?” I sit up straight and rub the gunk out of my eyes.

“Uh, I just got a call from Dad.” She pauses. “Elliot’s in hospital.”

“What?!” I jump out of bed, but, now that I’m standing, I don’t know what physical movement could express my distress.

“He’s in a coma or something, since earlier yesterday,” she says as I begin to pace the room. Now I can hear stifled tears brimming in her voice. “They can’t wake him up and he’s all cold…”

“Oh crap oh crap oh crap…” I can hear my voice cracking and creaking.

“That’s all I know for the moment, apart from that Mum, Dad and Amy went over for a visit, and he was apparently ‘extra bad tempered’ before it happened, not that that means anything from them…” she trails off. “I should have gone, too! Stupid essay.”

“I have to go there!” I say, picking up a scarf from my chair and shaking it, for something to do with my hands.

“You have enough money?”

“Yeah, I’ve been saving up pretty much everything Mum and Dad have given me this year. Should be enough… I don’t care, I have to go!” I yell that last bit.

“What can you do, though? I’m sure the doctors will be doing a good job…” she says.

“Maybe I can help. Maybe I know more than them about some things. Maybe I just want to see him and this is a dire circumstance!”

“I agree with that last one. Okay, I don’t have enough money to go as well. You know, poor student. But I have some you could use if what you have isn’t enough.”

“Thanks!” I say, then I’m confused… “Wait – why are you a poor student? Don’t your parents give you an allowance and pay your fees?”

“They did when I was doing Food Tech…” she says with guilty enjoyment. “Now I’m doing a dance program….”

“Yay!” I swish the scarf around in jagged patterns.

Her laugh is dehydrated of joy. “But, well, good luck when you see Elliot. And call me with updates, won’t you?”

“Of course! Thank you so much for telling me this. I would have _died_ if no one had told me.”

“No problem. You of all people should know,” she says, and she sounds a little sad about that, but it’s probably the sadness of knowing her beloved brother is in a coma. Coma? Well, we’ll see.

“You’re the best big sister ever,” I say. “Talk to you later!”

“Yeah, bye Andrew,” she says, and we hang up.

I pace around my room, then fling my wardrobe open, grab my suitcase and start chucking things in it. My CD player, CDs, t-shirts, trousers, underwear, hairbrush –

Wait! Don’t I need a ticket first? I sprint to the door, and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I reach for the clouded metal doorknob. My hair’s all messed up and I'm in my forest pyjamas. After shoving on clothes that may or may not match, I spike my hair to the side and almost give myself hairspray poisoning. All for what? This tangled monstrosity. Ugh oh well. I chuck on my sneakers that light up when you step, shove a couple of things into my pockets, I’m not sure what, and finally throw myself out the door.

I rush through the halls and empty courtyard and to the computer room. I can see through the geometric pattern on the door’s window that a class is in there. Damnit. I wirl around, looking from door to door, up and down the hallway, but there’s a teacher standing in front of a whiteboard in all of them. Didn’t Cameron say there was another computer room, near the Maths classroom? Yes! I bound out of the building and back through the quad, to the other side of the school, battering my way through three sets of glass doors and to the Maths room. I can see Mr Riley’s grey head nodding through the door window. But I don’t want to go in there, do I? I peek into the next few doors, until I find a dark room lined with grey, square computers.

I open the door and feel my way along the wall until I find the light switch. The overhead lights are replicated in each of the shiny, charcoal screens. I sit in front of one in the corner, hidden from the door, and start it up, my leg jiggling while it lurches into life with a mechanical groan. My hands exercise themselves while they wait for the keyboard, dancing across the desk and tapping out beats that Benjy would scorn. I feel like every second that passes is shoving past me like a nasty person on the street.

Ah! It’s open, finally! Now I have to wait for the internet to load, the page to load, the next page to load… I chew on a pen in frustration, then pull a packet of lollies out of my pocket. With sticky fingers, I fill out the form for buying tickets online and press print when the confirmation comes through. The mouse turns into an hourglass and I watch it turn, turn, turn. Each turn is a real hour, right? Finally, I hear the printer creak, and a page slides out of its off-white beak. I race up, grab it and fold it into some semblance of a square, shoving it into my pocket as I log out of computer and shut it down.

I leave the computer room just as I’d found it, and dart down the hallway, heading for the first set of glass doors. Mr Riley’s head emerges from the Maths classroom, and then his whole body is blocking my way to those gleaming doors.

“Andrew?” he says. “I thought you were in hospital?”

“Um!” I stop in front of him. “I got let out.” I press my palms to my legs to stop them from flinging me into this old man in his brown blazer.

“Why are you running around the hallway in mufti?” His eyes have narrowed, but I can’t tell whether he’s mad.

“I was...feeling cooped up!” I spring onto the balls of my feet, then flatten my heels back down.

“Andrew,” he says, barely moving. “Where’s the fire?”

“In Australia,” my voice squawks of its own accord.

“There are firefighters in Australia,” he says, suddenly gentle.

I stare at him, my eyesight blurring while my cheekbones hurt, and my breathing starts to speed up.

“It’s okay!” He places his hand on my shoulder. His palm just grazes the material of my t-shirt. “You do look sick. I’ll take you to the sickbay.”

“Don’t you have a class in there?” I ask, springing back from him.

“They’re working on exercises. It’s fine.”

“They won’t be doing them. They’ll be chatting.” I step back further.

“Don’t worry about it. Come on.” He steps forward and his hand clamps onto my shoulder, hard, this time, and pulls me in the direction of the glass doors. Yes, I wanted to go there, but not with him!

I stumble after him as he marches out of the building and through an alleyway of sorts, in between two classrooms. Teachers’ shortcut, I guess, past rusting pipes and windows with boxes in front of them.

He takes me into another building and through the first door. It’s the newest and cleanest room I’ve seen at this school, with white walls and a silver and granite kitchenette. Two of the four beds along the far wall are occupied with younger boys; one is sleeping and the other is holding his stomach and sniffling. I give him a sympathetic look, and he gives me a forced smile in return.

A woman in a bright yellow dress looks up from her desk next to the beds and smiles at us. “What do we have here?”

“Hello, Mrs Elise,” Mr Riley says. “Andrew, here, just got back from a night at hospital. Had a nasty asthma attack.”

She stands up and ushers me to a bed. “That’s no good. You do look a bit peaky. Do you want to have a sleep?”

I shake my head, looking at the white sheets that she’s folded down into a perfect triangle. When I look back up, Mr Riley is waving and leaving the room.

“Can I please go outside?” I ask.

Mrs Elise cocks her head to the side. “How about we just open a window. You look like you need to lie down.”

While she walks over to the window, I pout at her. I can’t just _lie down_. My flight’s in four hours, and Elliot’s doing enough lying down for the both of us. He needs to do _less_ lying down.

I check my pockets. The packet of lollies, the ticket, my phone, my wallet, and my inhaler. Wow, how’d my panicky self get so smart? I stare from Mrs Elise to the door as she goes back to her desk. She’s in the way. If I make a run for it, she could just tackle me. The window opens up onto that courtyard; a bench sits beneath it, beckoning my sneakers. Oh, would you look at that. I’m wearing my ones that light up when I step. Maybe not good for sneaking around, but oh well.

The boy holding his stomach looks up at me, then leans up on one elbow. I put a finger to my lips, then look back at Mrs Elise. Her head is bent over her desk. I grab the window frame just below my shoulder height, and climb up onto stomach ache boy’s wooden bedhead. And then I’m scrambling up and through the door-frame head first, my brain almost tipping out of my ears. The frame scrapes along my torso and legs. I clamber onto the bench and look back. The boy’s face is pressed up against the glass, nose flattened. Does he even have any cartilage? Crap! Mrs Elise is turning!

I flatten myself against the wall beside the window and edge along it, speeding up as I round the corner, then run to the front of the school and to the gates. They’re chained shut, so I jump onto the navy blue rails and over the top. Look at me, all athletic and crud.

My suitcase? I don’t need no suitcase. You know what I need? My passport. It’s at home. In Mum’s filing cabinet, with my birth certificate. How dare she keep it for me? What does she think I’d do if I had it on me? Run off to another country? Oh. Well, to be fair, she probably just thinks I’d lose it.

I run down the street, past houses with chipped tile roofs and vegetable gardens peeking through their wooden gates, and to the nearest bus stop. It’ll take me to town, and then I’ll have to catch another bus home. How long will that even take? I check the sign drilled to a white post, by the bus shelter. The next bus’ll be here at 1:40. Twenty minutes! I can’t wait that long! I’ll get caught before then.

So I run further, looking for a place where I can wait for a taxi safely. I end up in a shopping area down the road where kids from my school usually go to buy junk food and stuff. Not safe here…

A taxi rolls past, but its light is off and some other idiot is inside. Don’t they know they’re taking the place of a valiant saviour, thereby thwarting his attempts to save his true love?! Probably not, but they’re still stupid!

I look behind me and see no demonic teachers chasing me like in a video game, so I slow down and walk, to save my poor air-pipes. They’re getting that scratchy, coughy feeling, so I just concentrate on breathing and not panicking.

This is so annoying! Why can’t I just be in one _now_!?

I sit down on a bench in a mid-town quad sort of area with matching tiles and trees planted at strategic positions. Not very good for hiding from demon teachers, I know. But whatever. I pull out my phone and pause over the buttons, trying to remember the phone number for the taxi company that’s always playing its jingle on the radio. I start dialling, but then realise I’m calling for pizza and start again. Oh yeah. Got it now.

“Welcome to Taxi Town. Please wait for an operator,” a falsely enthusiastic, automated lady tells me, then the phone starts ringing. It seems to take a whole minute for someone to answer, but the minute on my digital watch doesn’t change.

Finally, a bored young lady takes my order as if I really am calling for pizza, while I talk in tones that the operators of 111 would be more familiar with.

I stand up, pace around the quad for a bit, go back to my bag, get out my CD player and play whatever’s in there already. Ah. The Smiths. That won’t help my mood! I change the CD to The Hives and jump up and down to the lively voice of Howlin’ Pelle. Who I can imitate perfectly, of course.

The taxi comes five songs later, and I chuck myself into the back seat.

“Hello, where to?” the taxi driver turns in her seat and smiles at me.

“Remuera, to pick something up, and then Auckland Airport,” I say in a puffy voice, like I’ve just swum across the Tasman, not jumped up and down to five short songs.

“Okay,” she says, revving up and driving off down the road. “Where are you travelling to?”

“Australia,” I say, and she asks no more questions, thank god, or I’d probably spill the whole story to her and she’d cart my behind straight back to school.

While she drives, the car tyres seem to swallow up the white lines on the road, and I grip the car door. Just keep going – no, not a red light! Elliot's in danger while we just sit here.

When we arrive at Mum and Dad’s house, I fling myself out of the car and up the front steps, then pat my bulging pockets. No keys! I try the front door, and it creaks open. But that means someone’s home. Okay. No one in the front hall, just the faint pattern on the beige wallpaper, embedded there like it’s shrinking away from my gaze. I step inside and press myself against it, sliding along until I get to the living room doorway. I can see Mum’s filing cabinet, in a light apricot coloured wood, sanded until it barely catches light. But you know what else I can see? Mum. Crouched outside the French doors, knees pressing into the dirt along the edge of the house. Lavender plants, wrapped up in soil-filled black plastic, sit beside her.

She turns towards them, and I sprint to the filing cabinet and hide behind it, then reach around, open the draw and stick my hand in. I feel paper and cardboard topped with metal, then dive into each of the pockets, one by one. My hand hits a tiny book, and I pull it out and flip it open. Dad’s picture stares back at me so hard I gulp and fling the passport back into the cabinet. I manage to pull out my own passport. Twelve-year-old me stares back, a slight smirk on my lips, my hair half way down my neck and swept up off my forehead. I check the expiry date. April 2004. Plenty of time!

I peek my head around the cabinet. Mum’s staring just to the right of the French doors, eyes almost grazing me, and I flatten myself back against the wall. My phone starts buzzing in my pocket, sounding like a mechanical cow mooing. Ack! The taxi lady! I scrunch my eyes closed, then leap up and run out of the room, through the hallway and out of the house.

I slide back into the taxi, while the lady says, “I called you.”

“I’m sorry!” I wail. “Let’s go, okay?”

“Right,” she nods, and lean my head against the front passenger seat while she drives I don’t know where - all I can see is grey carpet and the lights twinkling in my shoes.

She eventually stops, and I look up to see a sign saying ‘Departures’. I shake the lurching nausea out of my head, and I pay her the $80 fee (jeez!), before darting up to the automatic glass doors.

Oops, my passport escaped my pocket. I run back to the taxi, grab it from the back seat, say, “Thanks a lot!” and give her a big grin as I leave.


	18. Chapter 18

I run into the airport, and you’d think it’d be simple from there. But no. There are a billion check-in desks lined up along the far wall. Okay. Cathay Pacific. No. Singapore Airlines. No. Alliance. No. Qantas. No. Air NZ! Yes. But where are the people? The desk is empty, the overhead screen is black, and the metal rails aren’t even organising the dust on the floor into a queue, let alone people.

Okay. Calm down. Check in doesn’t close for an hour. What’s the rush? What’s the rush? What’s the rush? Oh, Elliot’s in trouble and why haven’t they invented teleportation yet?!

I race down the row of check in desks and – oh – God – thank you. There’s another row of desks. And lots of Air NZ ones with lots of people and _it's going to be fine_.

I tag myself on to the end of the line and realise that perhaps it isn’t such a great thing that there’s an abundance of people here.

The walls are white. Like snow. The snow in Elliot’s icy mind prison that’s probably giving him pneumonia as I stand here uselessly with my legs trying to do cartwheels while not actually moving (they haven’t been successful, yet).

Worse still, the necklace, again, feels like a billion kilo weight is stuffed into its fingernail-sized pendant. Don’t worry, you horrid piece of enchanted metal. You’ll see your twin, soon. And then I don’t know what I’ll do with you, but you probably won’t like it.

Yay! Front of the queue!

I step up to the desk, where a lady stands, smiling, her hair perfectly smoothed into a ponytail. I want to touch it; I feel like it would be a therapeutic experience.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

“Yes, why? Do I look frazzled?” I say in my most frazzled voice, adding an almost-hysterical-definitely-not-happy laugh to the end.

“Don’t worry.” She smiles placidly. “It’s all very simple. We won’t let you on the wrong flight.”

“Can’t you just put me in a coma and do it all for me and wake me up when I get there?” I ask, and she shakes her head.

Okay. Whatever.

I don’t have any luggage so I don’t have to check that in so that’s good. That saves me time. Actually, no. I still have to wait for the flight. _Curses._

The lady gives me a ticket that says gate 24, so I go to where the sign says ‘international departure’ and I’m _sure_ it’ll be so easy and there’ll be nothing to worry about except for the fact that this is the biggest waste of time in the entire universe!

Let’s just imagine something. I go to the police. I tell them my predicament. My boyfriend’s in a coma caused by our enchanted necklaces and he could be stuck in another world that doesn’t exist if I don’t get to him asap and save him, and it has to be me, because I’ve got the other necklace and can get to the other world. My problem, officer, is that he’s in Australia and it’d take a billion years to get there by ordinary means.

You poor thing, that’s terrible. Here, have our special police jet – it can leave right away and get you there in a jiffy.

Now, let’s consider a more realistic version.

Please get me out of this strait jacket!

Yeah.

If only I knew how to travel to alternate universes. Though, that ability would probably come with general teleportation so I wouldn’t need no stinking police jet.

How dare they deny it to me?! Wait – that didn’t happen.

Oh my God, I recognise this bit. A particular patch of carpet here made acquaintance with my knees in a bout of melodrama last year. A particular strawberry-blond fair skinned beauty disappeared beyond that desk where people are showing their immigration forms and I didn’t have one at the time but now I do and I get to go into that oh-so-special passengers only area but it should’ve been way sooner.

But I’m here now, so…onwards!

Form filled out. Form checked. Hand luggage checked. How efficient. Maybe that’s not such a good thing, after all. I now have 1 ½ hours until the flight boards. Now, what will distract me?

I wander about the shops for a while, but I can’t be bothered with any of it. I listen to my headphones, but the music closes in on me. I go into the bookshop and try to read, but I’ve forgotten what those squiggly lines mean. Words…yes…which ones? Oh, whatever.

Okay then, do something productive, Andrew.

I go to a pay phone and call Rebecca.

“Andrew?” she says.

“Yes, me, currently at the airport, with a ticket to Australia in his sticky hand. Frantic hand.”

“Oh my God. That was fast!”

“Fast?! Fast?! I feel like I’m going to die from waiting!”

“Calm down. You’re doing the best you can.”

“Don’t you know anyone with a jet plane?”

“No, sorry, we’ll have to make do.”

“Okay, okay, okay…um…”

“Yes?”

“What hospital? Where is it? How do I get there?” I manage to get out of my stress-impaired mouth.

“It’s St Matthews Hospital,” she says with pleasing yet disappointing efficiency. “I’ll have to get on the internet to find a map. Hold on.”

“Okay, thank you, dearest Rebecca, you’re a shining light in the darkness and confusion of this God-awful time and I just want you to know that I’m so glad Elliot’s got a sister like you and I don’t even feel jealous anymore.”

“Haha. Okay then,” she says nervously. “Found the map. The address is 87 Nerlon Street. Got a pen?”

“Um.” I pat my pockets, then pull out my phone. Doesn’t this thing have a note taking feature? Clearly not. I open up a new text message and punch in the address, my thumb almost aching from frustration as I miss half the letters. I send the message to myself, and ask. “How might one arrive at this address?”

I type the directions she gives me into a new message, and say, “Rebecca, I love you,” folding the phone like a precious artifact and slotting it back into my pocket.

“Thanks, Andrew. I might love you, too. Especially if you help my brother get better.”

“Never fear – it shall be done!”

~*~

More waiting. I eat some jet planes but bile gets into my throat and makes them sickly and it hurts when they get stuck in my teeth.

And more waiting in the gate area, when that opens. My only distraction is the the whiny family next to me.

And more waiting on the plane, watching some crap on a tiny screen a billion aisles away from me on headphones that barely work in one ear.

And more waiting at Australia’s immigration, with the biggest line of them all.

YAY NO LUGGAGE NOW I CAN GO.

So I go, clutching my phone with a look of manic triumph and anxiety on my face.

~*~

He’s almost pure white and motionless, and it looks like he’s sleeping, but not peacefully – the corners of his lips and the middle of his brow are scrunched downwards. He doesn’t look sick, exactly. Just tired, worn, very very pale, and completely inanimate.

No one's around, except for other patients sleeping in their beds. I approach him, touch his forearm and, yes, even the fine hairs are cold. Colder than me, by far.

He’s still wearing the necklace, so maybe the doctors couldn’t take it off. It looks strange, amongst the tubes feeding him and taking his heart rate and the pale green tunic he’s wearing. It’s glinting at me amongst all the paleness, and the black pendant stands out against his skin.

My chain digs into my neck, and my pendant lifts off my chest.

I sit down next to him, shuddering as my hip touches his cold torso, and hesitate, just for a second, before grabbing his pendant and jamming it into mine.

There it is – that old blackness again, making my spinning head want to explode even more, pressing hard against me, making me feel like I’m going to be stuck in that nothingness forever, and then it releases me into cold and whiteness.

I wait for the customary asthma attack, but it doesn’t come. I don’t feel any colder than I did outside.

And then I see him, sitting up against a tree and looking just like he did outside the snowy world, but in a grey t-shirt and black trousers, and with life in his eyes and limbs. But that life is leaning limply against the tree and frowning into the whiteness, no stubborn spark in his eyes as they reflect the trees around us. The castle stands behind him, but it's encrusted with jagged triangles of ice, and one of the towers has crumbled to the ground.

“Elliot!” I shout, running over to him as the snow tries to swallow my shoes, and his face sparks with disbelief, then the happiest expression I have ever seen. I choke on that expression, so suddenly thrown at me from that face...that face! In front of me, in the flesh, no pixels.

“How are you here?” His voice quivers as it rasps through his throat.

“I flew over to save you! How are _you_ here?” I kneel down beside him and latch on to him, hugging him tight, arms locked around his chest and stomach, heat seeping out of somewhere deep inside me and battling with the cold in my skin.

“I don’t know what happened. I just got really cold and my necklace went crazy, like it wanted to strangle me, and I fainted and woke up here…” he says. “I can’t believe you’re here…” His bright green eyes stare at me with such gratitude.

“Of course I’m here!” I say, and lunge for his lips. Yeah, it’s not the time for it, but _I can’t help it_ and it _is_ the time for it. Though his lips are cold and chapped and my knees are sinking into the snow, his breath still drenches me in warmth.

When I release his lips, he says quietly, “You should get out, though. I’m stuck here, but you don’t have to be…”

“What? No! I’ve come to get you out,” I say, looking at him frantically and jamming the two necklaces together. They stick together like their metal is magnetic, and I feel myself drifting into the blackness, but...he’s dissolving with the snowy scenery. I yelp and yank the necklaces away from each other, which is no easy feat, and stare at him in horror.

“It’s alright. I’m stuck here. I don’t mind, actually, now.” He says, smiling dreamily.

“Shush, you! You’re not dying here!” I grab his necklace and peer at it.

He pushes my hand down gently, covering my view of the pendant, and says firmly, “But it’s better like this. I don’t mind, _really_.”

“You don’t mind if you _die?!”_

“There’s no way out of any of it and I just can’t stand it. I’m sorry. I couldn’t handle it,” he says, looking down. How dare he use past tense?!

“Why didn’t you tell me?! And we _can_ get out of this!” I shake him.

“Sorry…”

“Stop saying sorry! I’m sorry!” I say hysterically. I can feel my face getting wet.

“Not your fault…really,” he says. “You’re the last person who should feel sorry.”

“But I do so shush and let me figure this out!” I push his hand away.

I stare at his pendant with fury at its insolence for bringing him here. My rage bubbles over and I smash at it with my fist but of course that doesn’t do anything.

“Maybe…” Elliot hesitates.

“Maybe what?!” I say. “You know more about this than I do! Tell me now, or, I swear, I will lay down next to you and we can freeze to death together. Yes, that’s right, I’m suicidally in love with you! So if you die, I’ll have to die too, and we can’t die like that, like Romeo and Juliet, because that means our families win and get to feel righteous!”

His eyes widen and he gulps, then quickly says, “Maybe if you make it so they don’t fit together anymore… Put a dent in one.”

I take a rock from nearby, digging my hand into the snow to get it, and smash it against his pendant. He winces as it pulls at his neck, and I notice there’s dried blood there and a clump of bile rises up my throat. I swallow it back down and grind the rock against the joiny end of the pendant. It makes a small ringing sound, which gets louder and louder until I’m, well, fairly certain it’s not just to do with the rock grinding. It fills my ears and I start to fear for my precious, precious hearing, and then –

I sit up with a start, in a starchy bed and with a nurse peering into my face.

She jumps back from me, and I sit up, looking down the rows of beds filled with strangers, and notice Elliot in his bed, leaning on his elbow, with a hand to his forehead. He looks so weak. But he’s awake. And alive. And here. Where I am!

I sprint over to him and careen onto his bed, planting a gigantic kiss on his mouth, which he returns with as much strength as he can, I’m sure.

Some people are talking and they sound pretty worried and alarmed but I don’t care, until some hands attached to those voices pull me away from Elliot. I rile against them, the longing for him only strengthened by the hands pulling me over to a bed. Then I really look at him, and notice just how weak he is, not even straining for me, just lying there and smiling at me, wearing his necklace with the tiny dent in it. I relax. He needs medical attention, not snoggings.

Letting myself get pulled over to a bed, I barely notice whoever it is that’s fussing over me. I’m busy watching medical personnel swallow up my view of Elliot. They don’t understand. They’ll never even know what was wrong with him.

~*~

“Finally,” I say, perching on the end of his bed and grinning at him.

He smiles and presses his lips together.

“Do you think I’d get manhandled away if I tried to kiss you, now?” I ask.

He looks relieved, like he thought I was going to say something else. “Probably not.”

My grin seems to stretch beyond the perimeters of my face and I lean forward to fasten our lips together. Much better than remembering or imagining. I feel like the sun is inside my chest, burning my insides, and now it’s burning down, down down, and, oh, would you look at that; I’m on top of him.

Elliot pulls his face away from me, though his body is pressing up against mine as much as mine is pressing down on his. “Okay,” he says, taking in a deep, shaky breath. “That’s enough PDA for one day.”

“But I _like_ PDA’s,” I say, nuzzling my nose into his cheek. “And I haven’t touched you in _so long_.” I draw out those last two words, rolling my eyes back in my head.

He takes in another ragged breath and says, “What about just before?”

“Doesn’t count in the same way,” I say. “My brain was too taken up with adrenaline and scaredness. Now it is free to pursue the dark neuron alleys of carnality.”

He makes a choking sound. “Right.” He shifts underneath me, and, wedged as he is between my body and the mattress, that little movement feels like _a lot_. My brain fizzles out and I lunge for his neck, which is right underneath my mouth, but then something connects against the side of my head, and my brain flares to life again.

“Sorry,” I hear him say, and I realise that the something was his hand.

“My brain’s not a computer.” I pout, rubbing my head.

“No… That doesn’t usually work on computers.”

My eyes focus and my brain clicks back into normal mode, and I stare down at his rueful but firm expression, and, well, there’s something odd about his face. Oh.

“You’re bright red,” I say, laughing.

“That makes sense,” he says, going even redder, his mouth setting into an embarrassed smile/frown.

“Usually, you go pale…”

“Oh…” he says ponderously. “Well, usually I feel nauseous.”

“Nauseous?!”

“Not sickened! Just…nervous.” He’s looking at my neck and never my face.

I try to catch his eyes, but they’re as elusive as ever. “And now?”

“Just…embarrassed and dizzy and boiling.”

“Wow,” I squeak, hugging his neck.

“What?” He sounds startled.

“You said how you _feel_.” Somehow, his cheek next to my cheek just got hotter.

“Oh. Right. Um…”

“That’s a good thing,” I say, “and you should do that _before_ you fall into an icy grave willingly.”

The heat leaves his cheek. “Oh.”

“Not that you have to talk about that _now_ , but you should. And not just should. I want you to. _I want to know what’s inside your head_. And not for gossip purposes. I won’t tell anyone. It’s just ‘cause I’m interested and care. So yeah, I’ll stop talking about it so you can think about it.”

Now I think it’s his turn to feel heat coming from _my_ cheek. Of all the cheeks to go red!

“Okay. I will. Think about it. Thank you,” he gets out of his mouth like it’s blocked up.

“Oh yeah, and _I love you_ ,” I say into his hair, and although it’s muffled, I’m sure he can hear my pure and sincere adoration.

“I love you, too,” he whispers by my ear, and although it’s the fastest string of words I’ve ever heard from him, I can hear the same feeling.

It feels like we’ve sunk into the bed even further, though I don’t think we’ve moved, and my mind feels all dreamy and floaty and elated and stuffed full of more emotion than it was designed to carry, and it’s all love. And then my arms get pins and needles until they go numb, and I can feel Elliot’s body more than I can feel my own.

An awkward cough sounds behind me, and I slowly and blearily turn around to see two big shapes and a small shape behind them, and they sort of look like people. I roll to my side and peel myself off Elliot, like peeling off a plaster.

The small shape darts forward and jumps onto the bed, latching onto Elliot, and I choke back a cry of shock when I notice it’s Amy. Amy?! The dreaded devil-spawn?! Latching onto my beloved with her evil clawy arms in a stranglehold that looks awfully like a…a…hug?

Elliot’s eyes are bulging out of his face, his nose is wrinkled slightly, and his mouth is turned down in what looks like disgust, but he pats her back awkwardly and endures the hug until it’s over.

“I was so worried about you!” she squeals in a voice that sounds slightly removed from the one that came out of her last time I saw her. Perhaps it’s worry and compassion, instead of evil vindictive malice. But…no…she can’t feel those empathetic emotions. Or, not that I’ve ever seen.

“You were?!” Elliot splutters, while giving me a fearful look. Well. At least he’s regained a concern for his safety.

“Of course I was!” she squeals, then releases him and sits on the other side of him. He looks a bit uncomfortable, with the two of us squishing him into the middle of the tiny bed, but _I’m_ not moving.

“We all were,” the seldom heard voice of the biggest shape comes forth and, oh dear, as if we haven’t traumatised poor Elliot enough, his dad steps up and leans over Amy, giving him a hug that would have cracked some bones, had the man any strength.

I look over at the other shape – wait – scratch that – I _glare_ at her, for I’m sure that Marilyn has stopped by just to deliver her two minions and probably to make sure the terrible news of Elliot’s recovery is true. Her eyes are bulging, her mouth pressed together, and her face is as pale as his. Her back is pressed against the far wall, in between an empty bed and a silver machine spurting coils of tubes. How can anyone look at the fragile form of the most beautiful and precious creature on this earth and just stand there, so far away? It would make me want to cry if this absurd situation weren’t just a bit hilarious! Instead, I’m caught in between sobs and laughter, which gets me four odd glances because a demented noise is coming out of my mouth.

~*~

“ _We all were._ What a joke,” Elliot scoffs as we walk down the street. We're finally free of the doctors and his parents (not before Gregory called my mum) and have managed to sneak off under the pretence of buying Amy lollies from the dairy.

“He was being nice. I’d take what you can get in that vein… Unusual for him to…behave autonomously, really,” I say around a mouthful of gummy bears while offering him the packet.

“He wasn’t being nice when he backed Mum up as she told me off when _Amy_ smeared tomato sauce all over my laptop.” He shoves his hand into the packet roughly, a couple of gummy bears falling on the footpath. “Oops, sorry and thank you.”

“It’s okay,” I say, kicking at the lollies. “So _that’s_ what happened…”

“Yes. That is what happened.”

I feel something get caught in my throat, and I know it’s not physical, but it certainly feels like it. A lump that’s scratchy and watery at the same time. It feels like it’s swelling.

“Well, what do you want to do now?” he asks, distracting me from the lump.

“Hm!” I scratch my head while expertly not messing up my hairdo. “To be honest, I have no money! I had to borrow money to come over here.”

“Wow.” He raises an eyebrow. “How does it feel?”

“Awesome!” I grin, and he laughs.

“I still have the money from saving up, myself, though…so don’t worry about that,” he says.

“Ooh, good! Then let’s go to a hotel.”

He blanches, stumbles, and nearly trips on his own feet. I reach out an arm to steady him, but he still wobbles.

“What? You don’t want to go to your poppa’s house, do you?” I ask, smiling gently and trying to catch his eyes with mine.

He stares at me, but, unfortunately, a little below my eyes. “Well…no, actually. Okay.”

“Yes!” I punch the air and grab his hand, dragging him behind me.

“Where are you going?” he asks, pulling back and digging his toes in.

I turn, still trying to pull forwards. “To a hotel!” Jeez, what does he think?

“Uh…do you know where one is?” He raises his eyebrows and looks at me like I’m a silly child he doesn’t know what to do with.

“We don’t need such mundane things like knowing where one is! Our love makes us invincible!” I say, charging ahead, making him lose his balance and nearly crash into me, which would have actually been nice.

“Does our love turn us into high-tech navigation systems?” he laughs.

“Well, you _are_ part computer,” I say as if it’s totally obvious.

“Okay, then,” he says, staring around us. “Over there,” he points down a diagonal street to the left of us.

“Where there’s that big building that says Millennium Hotel?” I ask.

“Yes. It looks promising.” He half smiles, starting off in its direction.

“Indeed it does! Tally ho!” I run up past him and cross the road.

“Could you please look for cars when you cross the road?” I hear his familiar reprimanding voice behind me.

Oh! It’s like the old days! How happy I am!

I turn back to him and latch my arms around one of his, hanging off him and resting my cheek on his shoulder, and, maybe I’m imagining it, but I feel like I don’t have to bend down quite so much as before.

“You are infinitely adorable,” I simper.

“Thank you,” he says with a frowny voice.

“You think I’m adorable, too,” I say. “Especially when I’m being an annoying, reckless dick.”

When we get to the hotel, I procure us a room by explaining the truth – that I’ve rushed here to see my friend who’s been in hospital, and need a room last minute. I leave out the bit about wanting to get into his pants while in that room, just in case the hospital is too haughty for that kind of thing. Oh, and because I’ve got a very white-faced Elliot leaning against the reception desk, staring away from the receptionist and looking like he wants to faint.

With a key-card in one hand and Elliot towing from the other, I cart us up to my very own private room where no one can pull me off my beloved. Except for him…

I click the door shut behind us, and then the anticipation hits me in one big wallop, as if it forgot to attack me until now and is trying to make up for that.

“We’re together. And alone,” I say, taking a deep breath. “It’s like before.”

“And it’s not a dream.” Elliot blinks up at me.

“Yay!” I attack him with a giant squeezy hug, and he swings his arms around me, hooking his fingers into my t-shirt.

I catch his gorgeous scent that only smells like him, which is, for now, mixed with a sterile hospital smell. I kiss and smell him as much as I can, but I’m never going to be able to get back those lost months and it hurts, so I kiss him harder, and he clings to me so tightly I think I’m going to have dents in my flesh in the shape of his arms and hands.

“Um,” he warns, before his knees give out and he slumps against the wall, pulling me with him.

“Well then,” I say, regaining my balance. “In the event of leg incapacitation, please make your way to the bed provided,” I say in a flight-attendant voice.

He snorts with laughter and we shuffle across the room, leaning on each other, then flop onto the bed in unison and lie there. I seem to breathe the air right out of his lungs, our lips are so close together.

My whole body is entirely love. It’s tingling all over my skin and churning my insides. My head is so crammed full of it that I feel delirious and insane because no head was meant to carry this much of anything and the only way to make it feel better is to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him but it’s like scratching a gigantic itch with a toothpick.

“I love you,” I whimper, kissing his neck.

“I love you too,” he says, and his voice is all breath.

My lips touch the collar of his shirt and I pull at it with my teeth before sliding my hands up under it and pulling. He keeps his arms firmly at his sides and takes a few deep breaths, then lifts them up. I pull the shirt off him, covering his face for a moment. When revealed, his face is pink and his hair is sticking up and he just looks so cute that I momentarily forget that his bare chest is lying before me, pale and soft and naked. Momentarily. And then my lips are devouring him.

His breaths become short, sharp and often, his skin feels burning hot under my lips, and he covers his face in his hands. I catch glimpses of red between his fingers.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, sliding up and kissing his hands. “You don’t want to…” dread settles in my stomach, “wait longer, do you?”

“I don’t know.” His voice strains through his hands. “Not really. I want to do it. I’m just-“

“Just what?” I ask.

He says nothing and doesn’t move, except to tense up a little more.

“Pleeeease tell me…” I whine into his ear and kiss his temple.

He takes a deep breath and takes his hands off his bright red face.

“I’m scared. And embarrassed,” he says shakily, but looking me in the eyes.

“See? That wasn’t so hard!” I say, kissing his cheek, which is even hotter than the rest of him.

He shrugs like he could beg to differ.

“But…why are you scared? You’re always so brave.”

He laughs and rubs his face with his palms. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are. And this’ll be _good_.”

“I know.”

I make my voice really deep and husky, like a corny smooth jazz singer, and murmur in his ear, “C’mon, baby. You know you want to. Let Andy take care of you.”

His shoulders curl forward, as a loud laugh escapes his lips, then flop back down to the bed and he lies there, giggling. Then they press into the covers as his back arches when I lick his chest.

“Yeah? You like that?” I say in the same voice.

“Stop it,” he says, melting in a puddle of giggles again and batting at my head. “You sound ridiculous.”

“Ooohhh, you know you like it. You know I’m sexy,” I say as my hands wind down to his fly button, which I yank open.

Half-debilitated by laughter, he tries to grab my hand, but misses, and I slide off the bed to his feet, where I take off his shoes and socks, making deep and overexaggerated, appreciative noises and kissing his feet. He sits up and tries to kick me, but I’m too quick again, and I whip his trousers off before he knows what’s what.

“No fair,” he says, going even redder (I didn’t think it was possible) and looking like he regrets that his arms aren’t enough to cover his body.

“Oooh, yeah, you wanna see what I’ve got, don’tcha,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows at him.

He coughs awkwardly and I fling off my t-shirt; it flies up and lands on the curtain rack. I sidle out of my trousers and shoes, then stand proudly before him in my almost naked gloriousness.

“But you want more, don’t you?” I ping the band of my undies and then slowly, slowly slowly, I pull them down, leaving my beautiful manliness completely exposed. “And now,” I say, moving slowly towards him, “your turn.” And I tear off his undies with my teeth.

“Well then,” he says shakily as I crawl back up so we’re face to face.

“Ooooh, baby,” I say into his neck as I run my hands up and down his sides.

“Stop with the voice already!” he says, laughing again.

“Oh no, you like it too much,” I croon and prod his erection. “That’s more than obvious.”

“It’s not from that!” he says in mild outrage.

“You know it is, baby.”

“Shush, you,” he says, and, okay, that half-angry, half-playful face has to be the sexiest expression I’ve ever seen. Now, what is this pressure on my head? His hands pushing me down down down and OH! Best way of shutting me up _ever_!

~*~

“I can’t believe it,” I say desolately, curled up next to him, head on his shoulder.

“What?” The question is sharp and worried, jolting his whole body.

“You’ve totally been watching porn. You knew stuff.” I crane my neck so he can see my face and pout.

He looks startled, then sighs and relaxes. “Weren’t you?”

“Nope! I got all my knowledge from prostitutes, thank you very much!” I say haughtily, earning me a whack on the head. “You know, belting all the brain-cells out of me won’t help anything.”

“What brain cells?” he says, but kisses my forehead anyway.

“And…just so you know, you’re beautiful and hot and you were very, very good, so you don’t have to be embarrassed,” I say, which sets off the whole blushing thing again, ironically. Why do _compliments_ embarrass this guy?

“Thank you,” he chokes out, staring at the ceiling. “You’re just wonderful. Entirely. So…yeah…”

An eruption of joy in my chest explodes from my mouth as a short, loud laugh. “Oh my God, I love you.” I muffle his reply with a sudden kiss. “I never want you out of my sight again,” I say against his mouth, our hot breaths puffing in each other’s faces.

“Please mean that.” His voice is so strained with intensity and his eyes are so close and boring into mine that even I have to blush.

“I do! Every moment away from you is like a slice in my heart and I want to be with you twenty-four-seven forever and ever and ever until we die,” I gush, panting out every overdramatic but _so true_ word.

“It will be like that. I promise.” His kiss is as forceful as his words, and I match it, and I _know_ that it will always be like this.

And we will live happily ever after! (Sorry. I just had to put that. But it’s so happening.)


End file.
